



D 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



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Book 

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CCEXRIGHT DEPOSm 



MODERN VERSE 



BRITISH AND AMERICAN 



EDITED BY 

ANITA P. FORBES, M.A. 

HARTFORD PUBLIC HIGH SCHOOL 



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NEW YORK 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 






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Copyright, 1921 

BY 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 






OErio'2t 

PRINTED IN THE U. S. A. 

©r.!.A653039 



FOREWORD '■: 

In looking over the anthologies of poetry on the shelves of 
any well-equipped public library, one thinks of the rats that 
followed the Pied Piper. There are war poems, love poems, sad 
poems, funny poems, old poems, new poems, child poems, col- 
lege poems, poems of the city, poems of the country — antholo- 
gies by tens and dozens. In the latest additions to these 
we take particular pride, for they represent the verse of our 
own age. 

IModern poetry is worth being proud of for at least two 
reasons. First, it appeals to many different types of people. 
Whether one is looking for poems that are heroic, fanciful, 
humorous, or thoughtful — poems on any subject from the 
steel industry to the immortality of the soul — poems of the 
loftiest imagination or the tenderest human interest — he will 
find his desires gratified. In no other period of English liter- 
ature has poetry been so varied, so like an elaborate prism 
which flashes new beauty to eaeh eye. For never before has 
it refracted the light of so many and such different person- 
alities. It has been said that every one can write at least 
one good poem ; and nowadays he can usually get it published. 
The name of our young poets is Legion. Moreover, many of 
our poets, even the best-known ones, have wide interests besides 
their poetry. They may be newpaper men, lawyers, college 
professors, army officers, social workers. The great emotional 
stimulus of the war drove vigorous, practical men and women 
of all ages and occupations to the discovery that poetry might 
be a solace and joy not only to the student or visionary, but 
to the average person. \ 

The technique of modern poetry is no less free, novel and 



vi FOREWORD 

richly varied than its viewpoint and ideas. Never before has 
the English language been molded into so many poetica) 
shapes, some old, some new, some fantastic, many beautiful. 
Standard forms like blank verse, the sonnet, the couplet, the 
ballad stanza; free verse or polyphonic prose, woven in as 
many patterns as there are poets; imitations and adaptations 
of French, Greek, Japanese verse-forms — we find them all,- 
and many others, in the constant stream that pours out of 
this poetic melting-pot. Whatever the form, the diction is 
usually simple and forceful, much like that of the best con- 
temporary speech. There is very little inverted order; there 
are few threadbare or over-extended metaphors. We also 
like modern verse for its conciseness. The average poem 
of to-day is short, and for that reason the thought or image 
which it contains is the more likely to arrest and grip our 
attention. 

Of course, no sensible person would claim that his own 
age had a monopoly of fine poetry any more than a monopoly 
of great men. Our contemporary poets themselves would be 
the last ones to urge that we read their verses instead of those 
by the older masters, for they appreciate more fully than we 
what is meant by poetic heritage. John Masefield's writing 
has been much influenced by his admiration for Chaucer. 
Amy Lowell, for years, was a devoted student of Keats. All 
they do ask is that we read their verses in addition to the old, 
world-famous ones, and value old and new alike at their true 
worth. In fact, many a person has found that — paradoxical 
as it sounds — the more vitally he is interested in contemporary 
literature, the more vitally he becomes interested in standard 
literature. For the present can never be fully interpreted 
save in the light of the past. 

Still, we owe a definite debt to our own generation. No 
literature can reach its highest level witliout enthusiastic and 
intelligent readers. If we believe that from the struggles, 



FOREWORD vii 

questionings, and aspirations of this age there are to emerge 
a few great poets who will guide us along the path of vision, 
we must prepare ourselves to understand and follow them. 
We must read contemporary verse with discrimination and 
yet with' appreciation ; we must talk about it freely and natu- 
rally; we must pass on what we like to our friends. I 
remember that one day I overheard two boys who were 
talking as they looked over my bookcases for something to 
read, ^akl one, " Rhymes of a Red Cross Ma7i? Sure! I'll 
show you a peach of a poem in that ! ' ' 

In that spirit, then, this book passes to other American 
school-boys and school-girls some modern poems which my own 
pupils have liked. For two years I have been reading con- 
temporary verse aloud to junior and senior classes — or getting 
them to read it — and finding out what poems were favorites 
with the majority. The collection is a very simple one ; it 
doesn't pretend to trace recent poetic development or to be 
all-inclusive. Even the Notes at the back of the book serve 
merely to point out trails which readers may follow for them- 
selves. Sooner or later, most people discover that the verse of 
their own age is a source of real literary pleasure. Why not 
make that discovery early? 

Formal acknowledgments to the publishers and authors 
who have permitted the use of the poems are made on the fol- 
lowing pages. Informal, but equally sincere thanks are due 
to others. Helen IMiller, H. P. H. S. 1919; Lester Klimm, 
H. P. H. S. 1920; and, in fact, all my upper-class pupils of 
the last two years have been my "collaborators" in a very real 
sense of the word ; and the most helpful advice and suggestions 
have been contributed by Miss Hazeltine, Miss Brann and 
Mr. Hitchcock, my fellow-teachers and friends. 

A. P. F. 
Hartford, Conn., 

October, 1920. 



ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

To the following publishers, authors, and individual 
holders of copyrights my thanks are due for their ready 
and generous cooperation in granting formal permission 
to reprint material : 

To The Atlantic Monthly for "The Ancient Beau- 
tiful Things," by Fannie Stearns Davis. 

To Messrs. Barse & Hopkins for "Funk" (from 
Rhymes of a Red Cross Man) by Robert Service. 

To Mr. B. II. Blackwell for "Dagonet, Arthur's 
Fool" (from Akleharan) by M. St. Clare Byrne, and 
"Rufus Prays" (from Oxford Poetry, 1916) by L. A. G. 
Strong. For this latter poem, additional acknowledg- 
ment is made to Messrs. Longmans, Green & Co., the 
American publishers. 

To jMessrs. Bobbs-Merrill Company for the poem by 
James Whitcomb Riley. (Footnote in connection with 
poem.) 

To Brentano's for "The Shadow People" and "To 
a Distant One" from Complete Poems of Francis Led- 
widgc. 

To JMiss Abbie Farwell Brown for "Pirate Treas- 
ure" (from Heart of New England, published by Hough- 
ton Mifflin Company.) 

To The Century Company for the poepi by Cale 
Young Rice. (Footnote in connection with poem.) 

To Mr. a. J. Eardley Dawson for "Night in iMeso- 
potamia" (from Night Winds of Arahy, published by 
Grant Richards, Ltd.) 



ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

To Messrs. Dodd, Mead and Company for ' ' My Sweet 
Brown Gal" (from Lyrics of Love and Laughter) by- 
Paul Laurence Dunbar, and "To a Poet — By Spring" 
(from Baubles) by Carolyn Wells. (Footnote in connec- 
tion with poem by Mr. Dunbar.) 

To Messrs. George H. Doran Company for poems by 
Amelia Josephine Burr, Walter Prichard Eaton, Aline 
Kilmer, Joyce Kilmer, Christopher Morley, Dora Siger- 
son. Cicely Fox 'Smith, Charles Hanson Towne. (Foot- 
notes in connection with poems.) 

To Messrs. Doubleday, Page and Company for "A 
Creed" (from The Shoes of Happiness) by Edwin 
Markham; to these publishers and Mr. Rudyard Kip- 
ling (through Messrs A. P. Watt & Son) for "The Feet 
of The Young Men," "If," and "Recessional," from 
Rudyard Kipling's Verse; Inclusive Edition. 

To Messrs. E. P. Dutton & Company for poems by 
Purges Johnson, Winifred i\I. Letts, Siegfried Sassoon, 
and Herbert Trench. (Footnotes in connection with 
poems.) Additional acknowledgment is made to Mr. 
Trench. 

To The Four Seas Company for "The Faun Sees 
Snow for the First Time" (from Images — Old and New) 
by Richard Aldington. 

To Messrs. Harcourt, Brace and Howe, Inc. for "Da 
Younga 'Merican" (from Canzoni) and "Een Napoli" 
(from Carmina) by T. A. Daly; and "Prayer" (from 
Challenge) by Louis Untermeyer. 

To Messrs. Harper & Brothers for poems b}^ Dana 
Burnet, Charles Buxton Going, Artlmr Guiterman, and 
Captain Cyril Morton Home. (Footnotes in connection 
with poems.) 

To INIessrs. Henry Holt and Company for "An Old 
Woman of the Roads" (from Wild Earth) by Padraic 



ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

Colum; "The Ship of Rio" (from Peacock Pie) and 
"The Sunken Garden" (from Motley) by Walter de la 
Mare: "To the Thawino- Wind" (from A Boy's Will), 
"After Apple-Picking" (from Mountain Interval) andl 
"Birches" (from North of Boston), by Robert Frost; 
**Fog" (from Chicag'o Poems), "Prayers of Steel" and 
"Three Pieces on the Smoke of Autumn" (from Corn- 
huskers) by Carl Sandburg; "Haymaking" (from 
Poems) by Edward Thomas; "Ilighmount" (from 
These Times) by Louis Untermeyer; "The Factories" 
and "Gifts" (from Factories) and "Mary, Helper of 
Heartbreak" (from The Old Road to Paradise), by 
Margaret Widdemer. 

To Mr. Brian Hooker for "A Man-Child's Lullaby" 
(from Poems, published by Yale University Press). 

To Messrs. Houghton Mifflin Company for selec- 
tions from the poems of Grace Hazard Conkling, John 
Drinkwater, John Gould Fletcher, and Josephine Pres- 
ton Peabody. These selections are used by permission 
of, and by special arrangement with, Houghton Mifflin 
Company, the authorized publishers of their works. 

To Mr. B. W. Huebsch for "High-Tide" (from Grow- 
ing Pains) by Jean Starr Untermeyer, copyright 1918. 

To The Independent for ' ' Provincetown ' ' by Marie 
Louise Hersey. 

To Mr. Mitchell Kennerley for "God's World" 
(from Benascence and Other Poems) by Edna St. Vin- 
cent IMillay. 

To Mr. Alfred A. Knopf for "America" (from Mush- 
rooms) by Alfred Kreymborg; for "Psalm to jMy Be- 
loved" (from Body and Raiment) by Eunice Tiet.jens; 
and to him as the American publisher of "A Greeting" 
(from Poems) by W. H. Davies; "To Lucasta, On Going 
to the War — for the Fourth Time" (from Fairies and 



xii ACKNO'WLEDGMENTS 

Fusiliers) by Robert Graves; ''Sonnet" (from Poems- 
First Series) by J. C. Squire. Separate acknowledgment 
is made to IMr. Davies' English publisher, Mr. Elkin 
Mathews; additional acknowledgment is here made to 
Mr. Graves (through ]\Ir. James B. Pinker) and Mr. 
Squire (through Messrs A. P. Watt & Son). 

To Messrs. John Lane Company for "Song," "The 
Great Lover," "The Soldier" (from Collected Poems of 
Rupert Brooke) ; for "^^lay is Building Her House" 
(from The Lonely Dancer) by Richard Le Gallienne; 
to these publishers and to ]\Ir. Le Gallienne for 
"Brooklyn Bridge at Dawn" (from New Poems) ; to 
them and to Mr. Ford Madox Hueffer for "The Old 
Houses of Flanders"" (from On Heaven and Poems 
Written in Active Service). 

To Prof. John A. Lom.o:, editor of Coivhoy Songs 
(published by The Macmillan Company) from "The 
Cow-boy 's Dream. ' ' 

To Messrs. Erskine ]\Lvcdonald, Ltd. for ' ' The Dawn 
Patrol" (title poem) by Paul Bewsher. 

To Messrs. Macmillan & Co., Ltd. (London) for "The 
Penalty of Love" (from Poems of the Unknown Way) by 
Sidney Royse Lysaght, and "Continuity" (from Col- 
lected Poems) by A. E. 

To The Macmillan Company for poems by John Ken- 
drick Bangs, Mary Carolyn Davies, Fannie Stearns 
Davis, Wilfrid Wilson Gibson, Hermann Ilagedorn 
Ralph Hodgson, Vachel Lindsay, Amy Lowell, Percy 
MacKaye, John Masefield, Edgar Lee Masters, Harriet 
Monroe, Sara Teasdale, and W. B. Yeats. (Footnotes in 
connection with poems.) Special additional acknowl- 
edgment is made to Mr. IMasefield, and to JNIr. Yeats 
(through Messrs. A. P. Watt & Son). 

To Mr. Elkin Mathews for "The Dead to the Living" 



ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 3 

(from The New World) by Laurence Binyon, and "A 
Greeting" (from Foliage) by W. II. Davies. 

To Messrs. David McKay Company for "In Service" 
(from Songs from Leinstcr) by Winifred M. Letts. 

To The Oxford University Press for "A Vignette" 
(from Collected Poems) by Robert Bridges. 

To Poetry, a Magazine of Verse for "Parting" by 
Alice Corbin Henderson, and "Ellis Park" by Helen 
Hoyt. 

To The Poetry Bookshop (London) for "People" 
(from Spring Morning) by Frances D. Cornford. 

To Messrs. G. P. Putnam's Sons for "The Devil" 
(from Poetical Works of William Henry Drummond) ; 
for "In Flanders Fields" (title poem) by John McCrae. 
(Footnotes in connection with poems.) 

To IMessrs. Charles Scribner's Sons for "Courage" 
(from Moods, Songs and Doggerel) by John Galsworthy; 
"The Green Inn" (from Scribner's Magazine) by Theo- 
dosia Garrison; "To My Brother" (from Service and 
Sacrifice) by Corinne Roosevelt Robinson; "Richard 
Cory" (from Children of the Night) by Edwin Arling- 
ton Robinson; "I Have a Rendezvous with Death" (from 
Poems) by Alan Seegar; "A Mile With Me" (from The 
Poems of Henry van Dyke). 

To Mr. Martin Secker for "The Old Ships" (from 
Collected Poems) by James Elroy Flecker. 

To Messrs. Sidgv^^ick and Jackson, Ltd. for "The 
Old Soldier" (from Flower of Youth) by Katherine 
Tynan. 

To Messrs. Small, Maynard & Company for the poem 
by Bliss Carman and the poem by Bliss Carman and 
Richard Ilovey. Additional acknowledgment is made to 
Mr. Carman. (Footnotes in connection with poems.) 

To Messrs. Stewart and Kidd Company for "The 



V ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

Little Golden Fountain" (title poem) by Mary Mac- 
Millan. 

To Messrs. Frederick A. Stokes Company for poems 
by Witter Bynner, Hilda Conkling, Theodore Maynard, 
Robert Nichols, and Alfred Noyes. (Footnotes in con- 
nection with poems.) 

To the Boston Evening Transcript for "The Small 
Town Celebrates" by Karle Wilson Baker, and "The 
Shepherd to the Poet" by Agnes Kendrick Gray. 

To the Yale University Press for "Good Company" 
(from Blue Smoke) by Karle Wilson Baker; for "The 
Horse-Thief" (from Burglars of the Zodiac) by Wil- 
liam Rose Benet. Additional acknowledgment is made 
to Mr. Benet. 

It gives me pleasure, also, to thank the following 
authors for letters containing not only personal per- 
mission, but, in many cases, interesting information and 
suggestions : 

Mrs. Baker, Mr. Bangs, Mr. Benet, Mr. Bridges, Miss 
Brown, Mr. Burnet, Mv. Bynner, Miss Byrne, Mr. Car- 
man, ]Mr. Colum, Mr. Daly, Miss Davies, Mr. Dawson, 
Mr. de la Mare, Mr. Drinkwater, Mr. Eaton, Mrs. Theo- 
dosia Garrison Faulks, Mrs. Sara Teasdale Filsinger, 
Mrs. Marie Louise Hersey Forbes, Mr. Frost, Mr. Gals- 
worthy, Mr. Gibson, Mrs. Fannie Stearns Davis Giflford, 
Mr. Going, IMiss Gray, Mr. Guiterman, Mr. Hagedorn, 
Mrs. Henderson, Mrs. Katherine Tynan Hinkson, Mrs. 
Carolyn Wells Houghton, Mr. Hooker, Miss Hoyt, Mr. 
Hueffer, Mr. Johnson, Mr. L,e Gallienne, IMiss Letts, Mr. 
Lindsay, Prof. Lomax, Miss Lowell, Mr. Lysaght, Mr. 
MacKaye, Miss MacMillan, Mr. Markham, ]\Irs. Joseph- 
ine Preston Peabody INIarks, Mr. Masefield, Mr. Masters, 
Mr. Maynard, Miss IMillay, Miss Monroe, j\Ir. Morley, 
Mr, Nichols, Mr. Noyes, Mr. Rice, Mrs. Robinson, Mr. 



ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

Robinson, Mr. Russell, Mr. 'Sandburg, Mr. Sassoon, Mrs. 
Margaret Widdemer Schauffler, Miss Smith, Mr. Squire, 
Mr. Strong, Mr. Towne, Mr. Trench, Mrs. Untermeyer, 
Mr. Untermeyer, Dr. van Dyke, Mr. Yeats. 



CONTENTS 



THE SEA 

Sea-Fever John Alasefield 

Wild We:athb3i Fannie titeams Davis 

High-Tide Jean Sto-rr Untermeyer 

Sailor Town C. Fox Smith . 

The Ship of Rio . . . . . . Walter de la Mare 

Old Anchor Chanty Herbert Trench 

Irradiations John Gould Fletcher 

v^ARGOES John Alasefield 

The Old Ships James Elroy Flecker 

Sing a Song o' Shipwreck . . .John Alasefield 
Pirate Treasure Abbie Far well Brown 



page 

■6 
4 
5 
5 

7 
7 

11 
12 
12 
14 
16 



THE CITY 

Fog Carl Sandburg 

^Brooklyn Bridge at Dawn . . v Richard Le Gallienne 

Eew NapolI T. A. Daly . . 

City Roofs Charles Hanson Towne 

Broadway . Hermann Hagedorn 

The Peddler Hermann Hagedorn 

Roses in the Subway .... Dana Burnet 

The FACfioRiES Margaret Widdemer 

Prayers of Steel Carl Sandburg 

Ellis Park Helen Hoyt 

The Park Dana Burnet 

At Twilight ^ Harriet Monroe 

In Lady Street ^ John Drinkwater 

The Barrel-Organ Alfred Noyes 



THE COUNTRY 

The Green Inn Theodosia Garrison 

The Febtt of the Young Men 

1897 '^ Rudyard Kipling . 



21 
21 
22 
23 
23 
24 
25 
26 
27 
28 
29 
30 
31 
34 



'^- 



43 



44 



CONTENTS 



To THE Thawing Wind . . . ^ 

Mister Hop-Toad 

To A Poet 

May is Building Her House . 
A Mountain Gateway .... 

Haymaking 

An Indian Summer Day on the 

Prairie 

A Greeting 

A Vagabond Song 

Three Pieces on the Smoke of 

AXTTUMK 

God's World . . . . 

After Apple-Picking . . . *V 

Brother Beasts 

Birches ....... r 

Highmount . . . . . 

A Vignette 

The World's Miser 

Good Company 

Irradiations 

Trees 

Night-Piece 

Y/- The Final Spurt . . . . r 
The Horse Thief 



Robert Frost 
James ^VIliteomb Riley 
Carolyn Wells 
Richard Le Gallienne 
Bliss Carman 
Edward Thomas 



Vachel Lindsay 
William H. Davies 
Bliss Carman and 

Richard Hovey 
Carl Sandburg 
Edna St. Vincent Millay 
Robert Frost 
Cale Young Rice 
Robert Frost 
Louis Untermeyer 
Robert Bridges 
Theodore Maynnrd 
Karle Wilson Baler 
John Gould Fletcher 
Joyce Kilmer 
Siegfried Sassoon 
John Masefield 
William Rose Benct 



V 



WAR 

The Return Wilfred Wilson Gibson 

. Dora Sigerson 

. Amy Loioell 

. Ford Madox Flueffer 

. Grace Hazard Conkliug 

. Katherine Tynan 

. Robert W. Service 

. Cyril Morton Home 

. W. M. Letts . . 



The Road of the Refugees . 
The Bombardment .... 
The Old Houses of Flanders . 
Rheims Cathedral — 1014 . 

The Old Soldier 

Funk 

The Devout Highland.fr . 
The Spires of Oxford 

\^ The Soldier "^ Rupert Brooke 

, I Have a Rendezvous With 

Death '^y Alan Seegar 



95 



CONTENTS 



XIX 



'John McCrae 
Laurence Binyon 
Siegfried Sassoon 
Robert Nichols 



Robert Graves . 
Wilfred W. Gibson 
A. J. E. Dawson 



^1n Flanders Fields ... 
The Dead to the Living 
Countkr-Attagk . . . . 

Noon 

To LrcASTv ON Going to the War 
— For the Fourth Time . 

Retreat 

Night in Mesopotamia 

Does It Matter? Siegfried Sassoon 

The Dawn Patrol Paul Bewsher, R. N. A 

D. S. C. 

An Open Boat Alfred Noyes 

Admiral Dugout C. Fox Smith 

"The Avenue of the Allies" . . Alfred Noycs 
Prayer of a Soldier in France . Joyce Kilmer 
The Small Town Cbxebrates . . Kaiie Wilson Baker 
Continuity A. E. . . . . 



page 

9U 

97 
98 
99 

100 
101 
102 
103 



103 
105 
105 
107 
110 
111 
114 



Baby Pantomime 

A Man-Child's Lullaby 

Justice 

Smells — (Junior) 

The Rag Dolly's Valentine 

The Anxious Farmer 

The Dew-Light .... 

The Shadow People 

Incorrigible 

Da Younga 'Merican 

Little Pan 

RuFus Prays .... 
An Old Woman of the Roads 
The Ancient Beautiful Things 
You, Four Walls, Wall Not in 

My Heart 
My Dog .... 
In Service 

My Sweet Brown Gal 
The Sunken Garden 
The Garden by Moonlight 



CHILDREN AND HOME 

"^ Percy MacKaye 

. Brian Hooker . 

. Aline Kilmer 

5 Christopher Morley 

. Arthur Guiterman 

. B urges Johnson 

. Hilda Conkling 

. Francis Ledividge 

. Surges Johnson 

. T. A. Daly . . . 

. Witter Bynner 

. L. A. G. Strong 

. Padraic Colum 

. Fannie Stearns Davis 



Josephine Preston Peabody 
John Kendrick Bangs 
W. M. Letts . . . 
Paul Laurence Dunbar 
Walter de la Mare 
Amy Lowell 



117 
117 
118 
110 
119 
120 
121 
122 
123 
124 
125 
126 
127 
128 

132 
133 
134 
135 
136 
137 



CONTENTS 



FRIENDSHIP AND LOVE 



To My Brother 

A Mile With Me . . . . ^ 

My Friend 

People 

^SONG 

The Look ^ 

To A Distant One 

"Mary, Helper of Heartbreak" . 
Garden cf the Rose .... 
The Little Golden Fountain . . 

Songs of a Girl 

Psalm to My Beloved .... 

The Reflection > 

A Lynmouth Widow .... 

Parting 

The Penalty of Love .... 



PAGE 
Corinne Roosevelt Robinson . 14) 
Henry van Dyke .... 142 
Walter Prichard Eaton . . 143 
Frances D. Cornford 143 

Rupert Brooke .... 144 
^ara Teasdale . . . . 145 
Francis Ledwidge . . ■ 146 
Margaret Widdemer . . . 147 
Charles Buxton Going . . 148 
Mary MacMillan .... 149 
Mary Carolyn Davies . . 149 
Eunice Tietjens . . . .150 
Christopher Morley . . .151 
Amelia Josephine Burr . . 152 
Alice Corhin Henderson . .152 
Sidney Royse Lysaght . .153 



THOUGHT AND FANCY 

Barter Sara Teasdale 

Time, You Old Gypsy Man . . . Ralph Hodgson . . 

Sonnet J- ^'- ^"^'luire .... 

'Provincotown Marie Louise Hersey 

America Alfred Kreymborg . . 

Recessional ^ Rudyard Kipling . . . 

,jp y Rudyard Kipling 

Courage 3 John Galsworthy 

Prayer Louis Untermeyer 

A Creed .....■•• Edwin Markham 

The Great Lovee .... PRupert Brooke . . . 

Qjp,pg Margaret Widdemer 

Richard Cory Edwin Arlington Robinson 

A Farmer Remembers Lincoln , Witter Bynner . . . 

.^Sunset V Percy MacKaye . . . 

Silence Edgar Lee Masters 

The Cowboy's Dream .... John A. Lomax .... 
General William Booth Enters 

Into Heaven Vachel Lvndsay . . . 

The DEVII. William Henry Drummond 



157 
157 
159 
159 
161 
161 
163 
164 
164 
165 
166 
168 
170 
170 
172 
172 
175 

176 

179 



CONTENTS 



XXI 



The Host of the Air . . . . 

The Fiddler of Dooney 

The Faun Sees Snow fob the 

First Time 

Etiquette 

The Potatoes' Dance . . . . 

Dagonet, Arthur's Fool 

Forty Singing Seamen 

s 
When Shakespeare Laughed . 

Suggested by a Cover of a 

Volume of Keats' Poems 

The Shepherd to the Poet 

To Yourself 

Notes 

Supplementary Reading List . 

Index of First Lines . 



William B. Ymts 
William B. Yeats 

Richard Aldington 
Arthur Guiterman 
Vachel Lindsay 
M. St. Clare Byrne 
Alfred Noyes 
Christopher Morley 



Amy Lowell 

Agnes Kendrick Gray 

Witter Bynner 



pace 

. 185 

. 187 

. 188 

. 189 

. 190 

. 192 

. 194 

. 199 

. 199 
. 201 
. 201 
. 205 
. 288 
, 293 



THE SEA 



SEA-FEVER * 

I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, 
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by, 
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's 

shaking, 
And a gray mist on the sea's face and a gray dawn breaking. 

I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide 
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied ; 
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying. 
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls 
crying. 

I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life. 
To the gull 's way and the whale 's way where the wind 's like 

a whetted knife; 
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover, 
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over. 

— John Mase field 



* From t^aJt-Water Poems and Ballads, by John Masefield. Used by 
^special permission of The Macmillan Company, publishers. 

3 



MODERN VERSE 



WILD WEATHER * 

The sea was wild. The wind was proud. 

He shook my curtains like a shroud. 

He was a wet and worthy wind : 

His hair with wild sea-crystals twined: 

His cloak with wild sea-grasses green ; 

His slanted winus all gray and lean: 

And strange and swift, and fierce and free 

He cried, "Come out! and race with me!" 

I snatched my mantle wide and red. 
And far along the cliffs I fled. 

The cliff-grass bowed itself in fear. 
The gulls forgot what path to steer; 
Below the cliffs thv broad waves broke 
In trampled ranks like fighting folk ; 
The ships with grisly sea-wrack blind, 
Dead-drunken, cursed that chasing wind. 

My lips with salt were wild to taste. 
I leapt: I shouted and made haste: 
Along the cliffs, above the sea. 
With mad red mantle waving free. 
And hair that whipped the eyes of me. 

And there was no one else Init he. 
That great grim wind who called to me. 

Oh, we ran far! Oh, we ran free! 

— Fannie Stearns Davis 

* From f^'rack o' Daivn, l)y Fannie Stearns Davis. Used by special 
permission of The Macmillan Company, publishers. 



THE SEA 



,L^ HIGH-TIDE 

I edged back against the night. 

The sea growled assault on the wave-bitten shore, 

And the breakers, 

Like young and impatient hounds, 

Sprang, with rough joy, on the shrinking sand, 

Sprang — but were drawn back slowly. 

With a long, relentless pull. 

Whimpering, into the dark. 

Then I saw who held them captive; 

And I saw how they were bound 

With a broad and quivering leash of light, 

Held by the moon, 

As, calm and unsmiling. 

She walked the deep fields of the sky. 

— Jean Starr Untcrmeyer 



SAILOR TOWN * 

Along the wharves in sailor town a singing whisper goes 
Of the wind atnono- the anchored ships, the wind that blows 
Off a broad brimming water, where the summer day has died 
Like a wounded whale a-sounding in the sunset tide. 

There's a big China liner, gleaming like a gull, 

And her lit ports flashing; there's the long gaunt hull 



* From Hfiilor Tonn, by C. Fox Smith, copyright 1919, George H. 
Doran Company, publishers. 



*<.„.A\ -^(2.J>^' 



6 MODERN VERSE 

Of a Blue Funnel freighter with her derricks dark and still; 
And a tall barque loadingr at the lumber mill. 

And in the shops of sailor town is every kind of thingr 
That the sailormen buy there, or the ships' crews bring: 
Shackles for a sea-chest and pink cockatoos, 
Fifty-cent alarum clocks and dead men's shoes. 

You can hear the gulls crying, and the cheerful noise 

Of a concertina going, and a singer's voice — 

And the wind's song and the tide's song, crooning soft and 

low 
Rum old tunes in sailor town that seamen know. 

I dreamed a dream in sailor town, a foolish dream and vain, 
Of ships and men departed, of old days come again — 
And an old song in sailor town, an old song to sing 
When shipmate meets with shipmate in the evening. 

— Cicely Fox Smith. 



THE SHIP OF RIO 

There was a ship of Kio 

Sailed out into the blue. 
And nine and ninety monkeys 

Were all her jovial crew. 
From bos'un to tlie cabin boy, 

From quarter to caboose, 
There weren't a stitch of calico 

To breech *em — tight or loose ; 
From spar to deck, from deck to keel, 

From barnacle to shroud, 



THE SEA 

There weren't one pair of reach-me-downs 

To all that jabbering croMcl. 
But wasn't it a gladsome sight, 

When roared the deep-sea gales, 
To see them reef her fore and aft, 

A-swinging by their tails ! 
Oh, wasn 't it a gladsome sight, 

When glassy calm did come. 
To see them stiuatting tailor-wise 

Around a keg of rum ! 
Oh, wasn't it a gladsome sight, 

When in she sailed to land, 
To see them all a-scampering skip 

For nuts across the sand ! 

Walter de la Mare 



OLD ANCHOR CHANTY * 

First Voice 

With a long heavy heave, my very famous men. . . o 
(Chorus. Bring home! heave and rally!) 
Second Voice 

And why do j^ou, lad, look so pale? Is it for love, or 
lack of ale? 
First Voice 

All hands bear a hand that have a hand to len' — 
And there never was a better haul than you gave then. . . , 
(Chorus. Bring home!) 

* Taken by permisgion from Poems, irith Fables In Prose, by Herbert 
Trench, published by E. P. Button & Co., New York. 



c-a e 



8 MODERN VERSE 

First Voice 

Heave hearty, my very famous men. . . . 
{Bring home! heave and rally!) 

Second Voice 

Curl and scud, rack and squall — sea clouds you shall 
know them all. . . . 

First Voice 

For we 're bound for Valparaiso and round the Horn again 
From Monte Desolado to the parish of Big Ben ! . . . 
{Bring home!) 

First Voice 

Heave hearty, my very famous men. . . . 
{Bring home! heave and rally!) 

Second Voice 

Bold through all or scuppers under, when shall we be 
back, I wonder? 

First Voice 

From the green and chancy water we shall all come 

back again 
To the Lizard and the ladies — but who can say for 
when? . . . 

{Bring home!) 

First Voice 

Heave and she's a-trip, my very famous men. . . . 
{Bring home! heave and rally!) 



THE SEA 9 

Second Voice 

When your fair lass says farewell to you a fair wind 1 
will sell to 3'ou. . . . 
First Voice 

You may sell your soul's salvation, but I'll bet you two- 

pound-tcn 
She's a-tripping on the ribs of the devil in his den. . . . 
{Bring home!) 

First Voice 

Heave and she's a-peak, my very famous men. . . . 
{Bring home! heave and rally!) 

Second Voice 

You shall tread, for one eruzado. Fiddler's Green in El 
Dorado. ... 

First Voice 

Why, I've seen less lucky fellows pay for liquor with 

doubloons 
And for 'baccy with ozellas, gold mohurs, and duca- 
toons! . . . 

{Bring home!) 

First Voice 

Heave and a-weigh, my very famous men. . . . 
{Bring home! heave and rally!) 

Second Voice 

And drop her next in heat or cold, the flukes of England 
they shall hold! . . . 



10 MODERN VERSE 

First Voice 

Ring and shank, stock and fluke, she's coming into ken — 
Give a long and heavy heave, she's a-coming into ken. . . . 
{Bring home!) 
First Voice 

Heave in sight, my very famous men. . . . 
{Bring home! heave and rally!) 
Second Voice 

With her shells and tangle dripping she's a beauty we 
are shipping. . . . 
First Voice 

And she likes a bed in harbor like a decent citizen, 
But her fancy for a hammock on the deep sea comes 
again. . . . 

{Bring home!) 
First Voice 

Heave and she's a-wash, my very famous men. . . . 
{Bring home! heave and rally!) 
Second Voice 

never stop to write the news that we are ofif upon a 
cruise. . . . 
First Voice 

For the Gulf of Californy's got a roller now and then 
But it's better to be sailing than a-sucking of a pen. . . . 
{Bring home!) 

— Herbert Trench 



THE SEA 11 

IRRADIATIONS 

III 

In the g^ray skirts of tho fog seamews skirl desolately, 

And flick like bits of paper propelled by a wind 

About the flabby sails of a departing ship 

Crawling slowly down the low reaches 

Of the river. 

About the keel there is a bubbling and gurgling 

Of grumpy water ; 

And as the prow noses out a way for itself, 

It seems to weav£L-a diH?am of bubbles and flashing foam, 

A dream of strange islands whereto it is bound : 

Pearl islands drenched with the dawn. 

The palms flash under the immense dark sky, 

Down which the sun dives to embrace the earth: 

Drums boom and conches bray, 

And with a crash of crimson cymbals 

Suddenly appears above the polished backs of slaves 

A king in a breastplate of gold 

Gigantic 

Amid tossed roses and swaying dancers 

That melt into pale undulations and muffled echoes 

']\lid the bubbling of the muddy water, 

And the swirling of the seamews above the sullen river. 

— John Gould Fletcher 



12 MODERN VERSE 



CARGOES 



Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir, 
Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine, 

With a cargo of ivory 

And apes and peacocks, 
Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine. 

Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Istlimus, 
Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores 

With a cargo of diamonds, 

Emeralds, amethysts, 
Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores. 

Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack, 
Butting througli the channel in the mad March days 

With a cargo of Tyne coal. 

Road rails, pig lead, 
Firewood, ironware, and cheap tin traj^s. 

— John Masefield 



THE OLD SHIPS 

I have seen old ships sail like swans asleep 
Beyond the village which men still call Tyre, 
With leaden age o'ercargoed, dipping deep 
For Famagusta and the hidden sun 
That rings black Cyprus with a lake of fire ; 

* From Salt-Water Poems and Ballads, by John Masefield. Used by 
special permission of The Macmillan Company, publishers. 



THE SEA 13 

And all those ships were certainly so old 
Who knows how oft with sc^uat and noisy gun, 
Questing brown slaves or Syrian oranges, 
The pirate Genoese 
Ilell-raked them till they rolled 
Blood, water, fruit and corpses up the hold. 
But now through friendly seas they softly run. 
Painted the mid-sea blue or shore-sea green, 
Still patterned with the vine and grapes in gold. 

But I have seen, 

Pointing her shapely shadows from the dawn, 

An image tumbled on a rose-swept bay, 

A drowsy ship of some yet older day ; 

And, wonder's breath indrawn. 

Thought I — who knows^ — who knows — but in that same 

(Fished np beyond yEa-a, patchetl up new 
— Stern painted brighter blue — ) 
That talkative, bald-headed seaman came 
(Twelve patient comrades sweating at the oar) 
From Troy's doom-crimson shore. 
And with great lies about his wooden horse 
Set the crew laughing, and forgot his course. 

It was so old a ship — who knows, who knows? 
— And yet so beautiful, T watched in vain 
To see the mast burst open with a rose, 
And the whole deck put on its leaves again. 

— James Elroy Flecker 



14 MODERN VERSE 



SING A SONG 0' SHIPWRECK* 

He lolled on a bollard, a sun-burned son of the sea, 
With ear-rings of brass and a jumper of dungaree, 
" 'N' many a queer lash-up have I seen," says he. 

''But the toughest hooray o' the racket," he says, "I'll be 

sworn, 
'N' the roughest traverse I worked since the day I was bom. 
Was a packet o' Sailor's Delight as I scoffed in the seas o' the 

Horn. 

"All day long in the calm she had rolled to the swell. 
Rolling through fifty degrees till she clattered her bell ; 
'N' then came snow, 'n' a squall, 'n' a wind was colder 'n 
hell. 

"It blew like the Bull of Barney, a beast of a breeze, 
'N' over the rail come the cold green lollopin' seas, 
'N' she went ashore at the dawn on the Ramirez. 

"She was settlin' down by the stern when I got to the deck, 

Her waist was a smother o ' sea as was up to your neck, 

'N' her masts were gone, 'n' her rails, 'n' she was a wreck. 

"We rigged up a tackle, a purchase, a sort of a shift. 
To hoist the boats off o' the deck-house and get them adrift, 
When her stern gives a sickenin ' settle, her bows give a lift, 

" 'N' comes a crash of green water as sets me afloat 
With freezing fingers clutching the keel of a boat — 
The bottom-up whaler — 'n' that was the juice of a note. 

* From Salt-Water Poems and Ballads, by John Masefield. Used by 
special permission of The Macmillan Company, publishers. 



THE SEA 15 

"Well, I clambers acrost o' the keel 'n' I gets me secured, 
When I sees a face in the white o' the smother to looard, 
So I gives 'im a 'and, 'n' be shot if it wasn't the stooard ! 

''So lie climbs np forrard o' me, 'n' 'thanky,' a' says, 

'N' we sits 'n' shivers 'n' freeze to the bone wi' the sprays, 

'N' I sings 'Abel Brown,' 'n' the stooard he prays. 

"Wi' never a dollop to sup nor a morsel to bite, 

The lips of us blue with the cold 'n ' the heads of us light, 

Adrift in a Cape Horn sea for a day 'n' a night. 

" 'N' then the stooard goes dotty 'n' puts a tune to his lip 
'N' moans about Love like a dern old hen wi' the pip — 
(I sets no store upon stooards — they ain't no use on a 
ship). 

" 'N' 'mother,' the looney cackles, 'come 'n' put Willy to bed !' 
So I says 'Dry up, or I'll fetch you a crack o' the head'; 
'The kettle's a-bilin',' he answers, ''n' I'll go butter the 
bread.' 

" 'N' he falls to singin' some slush about clinkin' a can, 

'N' at last he dies, so he does, 'n' I tells you, Jan, 

I was glad when he did, for he weren't no fun for a man. 

"So he falls forrard, he does, 'n' he closes his eye, 

'N' quiet he lays 'n' quiet I leaves him lie, 

'N' I was alone with his corp, 'n' the cold green sea and the 

sky. 

" 'N' then I dithers, I guess, for the next as I knew 
Was the voice of a mate as was sayin' to one of the crew, 
' Easy, my son, wi' the brandy, be shot if he ain't comin'-to !' " 

^ohn Masefield 



16 MODERN VERSE 



PIRATE TREASURE 

A lady loved a swaggering rover; 
The seven salt seas he voyaged over, 
Bragged of a hoard none could discover, 
Hey ! Jolly Roger, 0. 

She bloomed in a mansion dull and stately, 
And as to Meeting she walked sedately, 
From the tail of her eye she liked him greatly. 
Hey ! Jolly Roger, 0. 

Rings in his ears and a red sash wore he. 
He sang her a song and he told her a story : 
" I '11 make ye Queen of the Ocean ! ' ' swore he. 
Hey ! Jolly Roger, 0. 

She crept from bed by her sleeping sister ; 
By the old gray mill he met and kissed her. 
Blue day dawned before they missed her. 
Hey ! Jolly Roger, 0. 

And while they prayed her out of ]\Teeting, 
Her wild little heart with bliss was beating, 
As seaward went the lugger fleeting. 
Hey ! Jolly Roger, O. 

Choose in haste and repent at leisure ; 
A buccaneer life is not all pleasure. 
He set her ashore with a little treasure. 
Hey ! Jolly Roger, 0. 



THE SEA 17 



Off he sailed where waves were dashing, 
Knives were gleaming, cutlasses clashing, 
And a ship on jagged rocks went crashing. 
Hey ! Jolly Roger, 0. 

Over his bones the tides are sweeping; 
The only trace of the rover sleeping 
Is what he left in the lady 's keeping. 
Hey ! Jolly Roger, 0. 

Two hundred years is his name unspoken, 
The secret of his hoard unbroken ; 
But a black-browed race wears the pirate's 
token. 
Hey ! Jolly Roger, 0. 

Sea-blue eyes that gleam and glisten, 
Lips that sing — and you like to listen — 
A swaggering song. It might be this one: 
"Hey! Jolly Roger, 0." 

— Abhic Farwell Brown 



THE CITY 



FOG 

The fog comes 
on little eat feet. 

It sits looking 
over harbor and city 
on silent haunches 
and then moves on. 

— Carl Sandburg 



BROOKLYN BRIDGE AT DAWN 

Out of the cleansing night of stars and tides, 
Building itself anew in the slow dawn. 
The long sea-city rises: night is gone, 

Day is not yet ; still merciful, she hides 

Her summoning brow, and still the night-car glides 
Empty of faces; the night-watchmen yawn , 
One to the other, and shiver and pass on, ^ 

Nor yet a soul over the great bridge rides. 

Frail as a gossamer, a thing of air, ''- 

A bow of shadow o'er the river flung, 

Its sleepy masts and lonely lapping flood ;^'' 

"Who, seeing thus the bridge a-slumber there,0- 

Would dream such softness, like a picture hung, -^ 
Is wrought of human thunder, iron and blood ? 

— Richard Le Oallienne 



21 



22 MODERN VERSE 

EEN NAPOLI 

Here een Noo Yorka, where am I 
Seence I am landa las' July, 
All gray an' ogly ees da sky, 

An' cold as eet can be. 
But steell so Ions.- J maka men', 
So long- ees worka to be done, 
I can forgat how shines da sun 
Een Napoli. 

But oh, w'en pass da boy dat sal 

Da violets, an' I can smal 

How sweet dey are, I can not tal 

Plow seeck my heart ees be. 
I no can work, how mooch I try, 
But only seet an' wondra why 
T could not justa leeve an' die 
Een Napoli. 

—T. A. Daly 



CITY ROOFS * 

(From the Metropolitan Tower.) 

Roof-tops, roof-tops, what do you cover? 

Sad folk, bad folk, and many a glowing lover ; 
Wise people, simple people, children of despair- 
Roof-tops, roof-tops, hiding pain and care. 



* From Today and Tomorrotr, hy Charles Hanson Towno, copyright 
III 10, George H. Doran Company, publishers. 



THE CITY 23 

Roof-tops, roof-tops, what sin you're knowing, 

While above you in the sky the white clouds are blowing ; 
While beneath you, agony and dolor and grim strife 
Fight the olden battle, the olden war of Life. 

Roof-tops, roof-tops, cover up their shame — 

Wretched souls, prison souls too piteous to name ; 

Man himself hath built you all to hide away the stars — 

Roof-tops, roof-tops, you hide ten million scars. 

Roof-tops, roof-tops, well I know you cover 

Many solemn tragedies, and many a lonely lover ; 

But ah ! you hide the good that lives in the throbbing 
city — 
Patient wives, and tenderness, forgiveness, faith, and pity. 

Roof-tops, roof-tops, this is what I wonder: 

You are thick as poisonous plants, thick the people under ; 
Yet roofless, and homeless, and shelterless they roam. 
The driftwood of the town who have no roof-top, and no 
home! 

— Charles Hanson Towne 



BROADWAY * 

How like the stars are these white, nameless faces ! 

These far innumerable burning coals ! 
This pale procession out of stellar spaces, 

This Milky Way of souls ! 

* From Poems and Ballads, by Hermann Hagedorn. Used by special 
permission of The Macmillan Company, publishers. 



24 MODERN VERSE 

Each in its own bright nebula? enfurled, 
Each face, dear God, a world ! 

I fling my gaze out through the silent night — 
In those far stars, what gardens, what high halls, 

Has mortal yearning built for its delight. 
What chasms and what walls ? 

What quiet mansions where a soul may dwell? 

What Heaven and what Hell? 

— Hermann Hagedorn 



THE PEDDLER* 

I peddles pencils on Broadway. 

I know it ain't a great career. 
It's dull an' footless — so folks say — 

And yet I've done it twenty year, 
Held down my same old corner here 

An' never missed a day. 

I peddles, an' I watch the crowd. 

I knows 'em — all they say an' do — 
As if they shouted it out loud. 

I look 'em through an ' through an ' through ! 
By crabs ! they'd kill me if they knew — 

They are so fine an' proud. 

I knows 'em! Oh, it's in their eyes, 
It's in their walk, it's in their lips! 

They tries to bluff it — but I 'm wise ! 

An' they're just children when you strips 

* From Poems and Ballads, by Hermann Hagedorn. Used by special 
permission of The Macmillan Company, publishers. 



THE CITY 25 

The smirk off ; an ' the clerks, the chips, 
Stands clean of all the lies. 

I've watched so long, I scarcely see 
The clo'es it's just the faces now. 

Somehow I knows their misery, 

An ' wonders — when ? An ' where ? An ' how ? 

Elbow an' shoulder — on they plow — 
An' yet somehow they speaks to me. 

I'm like the priest — an' all day long 

They tells me what they 've thought an ' done, 

An' some is flabby, some is strong. 
An' some of 'em was dead an' gone 

Before they ever saw the sun. . . . 
I know where some of 'em belong. 

I peddles pencils. Christ! An' they? 

They does the things that seems worth while. 
I watch 'em growin' old an' gray. 

An' queer about the eyes, an' smile 
To see 'em when they 've made their pile, 

A-totterin' up Broadway. 

— Hermann Hagedorn 



EOSES IN THE SUBWAY * 

A wan-cheeked girl with faded eyes 
Came stumbling down the crowded car, 

* From Poems, by Dana Burnet. Copyright 1915, by Harper & 
Brotliers. 



26 MODERN VERSE 

Clutching her burden to her breast 
As though she held a star. 

Roses, I swear it ! Red and sweet 

And struggling from her pinched white hands, 

Roses . . . like captured hostages 
From far and fairy lands! 

The thunder of the rushing train 
Was like a hush. . . The flower scent 

Breathed faintly on the stale, whirled air 
Like some dim sacrament — 

I saw a garden stretching out 

And morning on it like a crown — 
And o'er a bed of crimson bloom 

My mother . . . stooping down. 

— Dana Burnet 



THE FACTORIES 

I have shut my little sister in from life and light 

(For a rose, for a ribbon, for a wreath across my hair), 
I have made her restless feet still until the night, 

Locked from sweets of summer and from wild spring air ; 
I who ranged in the meadowlands, free from sun to sun, 

Free to sing and pull the buds and watch the far wings fly, 
I have bound my sister till her playing-time was done — 

Oh, my little sister, was it I ? Was it I ? 



THE CITY 27 

I have robbed my sister of lier day of maidenhood 

(For a robe, for a feather, for a trinket's restless spark), 
Shut from Love till dusk shall fall, how shall she know good, 

How shall she go scatheless through the sin-lit dark? 
I who eould be innocent, I who could be gay, 

I who could have love and mirth before the light went by, 
I have put my sister in her mating-time away — 

Sister, my young sister, was it I? Was it I? 

I have robbed my sister of the lips against her breast, 

(For a coin, for the weaving of my children's lace and lawn), 
Feet that pace beside the loom, hands that cannot rest — 

How can she know motherhood, whose strength is gone? 
I who took no heed of her, starved and labor-worn, 

I, against whose placid heart my sleepy gold-heads lie, 
Eound my path they cry to me, little souls unborn — 

God of Life! Creator! It was I! It was I! 

— Margaret Widdemer 



PRAYERS OF STEEL 

Lay me on an anvil, God, 

Beat me and hammer me into a crowbar. 

Let me pry loose old walls. 

Let me lift and loosen old foundations. 

Lay me on an anvil, God. 
Beat me and hammer me into a steel spike. 
Drive me into the girders that hold a skyscraper together. 
Take red-hot rivets and fasten me into the central girders. 
Let me be the great nail holding a skyscraper through blue 
nights into white stars. 

— Carl Sandburg 



28 MODERN VERSE 

ELLIS PARK 

Little park that 1 pass through, 

I carry off a piece of you 

Every morning hurrying down 

To my work-day in the town ; 

Carry you for country there 

To make the city ways more fair. 

I take your trees, 

And your breeze, 

Your greenness, 

Your cleanness, 

Some of your shade, some of your sky. 

Some of your calm as I go by; 

Your flowers to trim 

The pavements grim; 

Your space for room in the jostled street 

And grass for carpet to my feet. 

Your fountains take and sweet bird calls 

To sing me from my office walls. 

All that I can see 

I carry off with me. 

But you never miss my theft, 

So much treasure you have left 

As I find you, fresh at morning, 

So I find you, home returning — 

Nothing lacking from your grace. 

All your riches wait in place 

For me to borrow 

On the morrow. 

Do you hear this praise of you, 
Little park that I pass through ? 

— Helen Iloyt 



THE CITY 29 



THE PARK * 

All day the children play along the walks, 
A robin sings high in a brave, green tree, 

The city lifts gray temples at its marge, 
But still it keeps the heart of Arcady. 

Still blows a flower in the waving grass. 

Lifting a face of beauty to the sun; 
Still bursts the bough in joyous burgeoning — - 

Still comes a lover when the day is done. 

Here the white moon, with magic in her train, 

Stoops from the starry lanes of paradise, 
And, with her ancient witchery of dreams. 
Lays some new hope upon a poet 's eyes. 

See, on that bench beneath the drooping bough. 
Did not yon grief -bowed figure lift its face? 

Look how the moonlight finds him through the leaves, 
Touching his brow with sudden crowns of grace ! 

O little park, little land of hope, 

Snatched from the world and held for God and me, 
Still through thy walks the wistful cities go, 

Searching the dream that yet might set them free ! 

— Dana Burnet 



* From Poems, by Dana Burnet. Copyright, 1915, by Harper & 
Brothers. 



30 MODERN VERSE 



AT TWILIGHT* 

You are a painter — listen — 

I'll paint you a picture too! 
Of the long white lights that glisten 

Through Michigan Avenue ; 
With the red lights down the middle 

Where the street shines mirror-wet, 
While the rain-strung sky is a fiddle 

For the wind to feel and fret. 
Look! far in the east great spaces 

IVleet out on the level lake. 
Where the lit ships veil their faces 

And glide like ghosts at a wake; 
And up in the air, high over 

The rain-shot shimmer of light, 
The huge sky-scrapers hover 

And shake out their stars at the night. 
Oh, the city trails gold tassels 

From the skirts of her purple gown, 
And lifts up her commerce castles 

Like a jewel-studded crown. 
See, proudly she moves on, singing 

Up the storm-dimmed track of time — 
Road dark and dire. 

Where each little light 
Is a soul afire 



From You and I, by Harriet Monroe. Used by special permission of 
The Macmillan Company, publishers. 



THE CITY 31 

Against the night ! 
Oh, grandly she marches, flinging 
Her gifts at our feet, and singing ! — 

Have I chalked out a sketch in my rhyme ? 

— Harriet Monroe 



IN LADY STREET 

All day long the traffic goes 

In Lady Street by dingy rows 

Of sloven houses, tattered shops — 

Fried fish, old clothes and fortune-tellers — 

Tall trams on silver-shining rails. 

With grinding wheels and swaying tops, 

And lorries with their corded bales, 

And screeching cars. * ' Buy, buy ! ' ' the sellers 

Of rags and bones and sickening meat 

Cry all day long in Lady Street. 

And when the sunshine has its way 
In Lady Street, then all the grey 
Dull desolation grows in state 
More dull and grey and desolate, 
And the sun is a shamefast thing, 
A lord not comely-housed, a god 
Seeing what gods must blush to see, 
A song where it is ill to sing. 
And each gold ray despiteously 
Lies like a gold ironic rod. 



32 MODERN VERSE 

Yet one grey man in Lady Street 
Looks for the sun. He never bent 
Life to his will, his traveling feet 
Have scaled no cloudy continent, 
Nor has the sickle-hand been strong. 
He lives in Lady Street; a bed, 
Four cobwebbed walls. 

But all day long 
A time is singing in his head 
Of youth in Gloucester lanes. He hears 
The wind among the barley-blades, 
The tapping of the woodpeckers 
On the smooth beeches, thistle-spades 
Slicing the sinewy roots ; he sees 
The hooded filberts in the copse 
Beyond the loaded orchard trees, 
The netted avenues of hops ; 
He smells the honeysuckle thrown 
Along the hedge. He lives alone, 
Alone — yet not alone, for sweet 
Are Gloucester lanes in Lady Street. 

Ay, Gloucester lanes. For down below 

The cobwebbed room this gray man plies 

A trade, a coloured trade. A show 

Of many-coloured merchandise 

Is in his shop. Brown filberts there. 

And apples red with Gloucester air, 

And cauliflowers he keeps, and round 

Smooth marrows grown on Gloucester ground, 

Fat cabbages and .yellow plums. 

And gaudy brave clirysanfhemums. 

And times a glossy pheasant lies 



THE CITY 33 

Among his store, not Tyrian dyes 
More rich than are the neek-feathers; 
And times a prize of violets. 
Or dewy mushrooms satin-skinned, 
And times an unfamiliar wind 
Robbed of its woodland favour stirs 
Gay daflodils this grey man sets 
Among his treasure. 

All day long 
In Lady Street the traffic goes 
By dingy houses, desolate rows 
Of shops that stare like hopeless eyes. 
Day long the sellers cry their cries, 
The fortune-tellers tell no wrong 
Of lives that know not any right, 
And drift, that has not even the will 
To drift, toils through the day until 
The wage of sleep is won at night. 
But this grey man heeds not at all 
The hell of Lady Street. His stall 
Of many-coloured merchandise 
He makes a shining paradise. 
As all day long chrysanthemums 
He sells, and red and j^ellow plums 
And cauliflowers. In that one spot 
Of Lady Street the sun is not 
Ashamed to shine and send a rare 
Shower of colour through the air; 
The grey man says the sun is sweet 
On Gloucester lanes in Lady Street. 



ohn Drinkwater 



^ 



^ 



34 MODERN VERSE 

THE BAEREL-ORGAN 

There s a barrel-organ caroling across a golden street 

]ji the City as tlie sun shiks low ; 
And the music's not immortal ; but the world has made it sweet 

And fulfilled it with the sunset glow; 
And it pulses through the pleasures of the City and the pain 

That surround the singing organ like a large eternal light ; 
And they've given it a glory and a part to play again 

In the Symphony that rules the day and night. 

And now it's marching onward through the realms of old 
romance, 

And trolling out a fond familiar tune. 
And now it's roaring cannon down to fight the King of France, 

And now it's prattling softly to the moon, 
And all around the organ there's a sea without a shore 

Of human joys and wonders and regrets ; 
To remember and to recompense the music evermore 

For what the cold machinery forgets. . . . 

Yes ; as the music changes. 

Like a prismatic glass, 
It takes the light and ranges 

Through all the moods that pass; 
Dissects the common carnival 

Of passions and regrets, 
And gives tlie world a glimpse of all 

The colours it forgets. 

And there La Traviata sighs 
Another sadder song ; 

* Reprinted with permission from Collected Poems, by Alfred Noyes 
Copyright, 1913, Frederick A, Stokes Company. 




THE CITY 35 

And there II Trovatore cries 

A tale of deeper wrongs; 
And bolder knights to battle go 

With sword and shield and lance. 
Than, ever here on earth below 

Have whirled into — a dance! — 

Go down I to 'Kewlin lilacttime, in lilac-time J in' lilac'-time'; 

Go down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!) 
And you shall wander hand in hand with love in summer's 
wonderland ; 

Go down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!) 

The cherry-trees are seas of bloom and soft perfume and sweet 
perfume, 
The cherry-trees are seas of bloom (and oh, so near to 
London !) 
And there they say, when dawn is high and all the world's 
a blaze of sky 
The cuckoo, though he 's very shy, will sing a song for 
London. 

The Dorian nightingale is rare and yet they say you'll hear 
him there 

At Kew, at Kew in lilac-time (and oh, so near to London!) 
The linnet and the throstle, too, and after dark the long halloo 

And golden-eyed tu-whit, tu-whoo of owls that ogle London. 

For Noah hardly knew a bird of any kind that isn 't heard 

At Kew, at Kew in lilac-time (and oh, so near to London !) 
And when the rose begins to pout and all the chestnut spires 
are out 
You'll hear the rest without a doubt, all chorusing for 
Londgfiu — 




36 MODERN VERSE 



Come down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time; 

Come down to Kew in lilac-time {it isn't far from London!) 
And i/oit shall ivander hand in hand ivith love in summer's 
wonderland ; 

Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!) 

And then the troubadour begins to thrill the golden street, 

In the City as the snn sinks low ; 
And in all the gaudy busses there are scores of weary feet 
Marking time, sweet time, with a dull mechanic beat. 
And a thousand hearts are plunging to a love they'll never 

meet, 
Through the meadows of the sunset, through the poppies and 

the wheat, 
In the land where the dead dreams go. 

Verdi, Verdi, when you wrote II Trovatore did you dream 

Of the City when the sun sinks low, 
Of the organ and the monkey and the many-colored stream 
On the Piccadilly pavement, of the myriad eyes that seem 
To be litten for a moment with a wild Italian gleam 
As A che la morte parodies the world's eternal theme 

And pulses with the sunset-glow? 

There's a thief, perhaps, that listens with a face of frozen 
stone 
In the City as the sun sinks low ; 
There's a portly man of business with a balance of his own. 
There's a clerk and there's a butcher of a soft reposeful tone. 
And they're all of them returning to the heavens they have 

known : 
They are crammed and jammed in busses and — they're each of 
them alone 
In the land where the dead dreams go. 



THE CITY 37 

There 's a very modish woman and her smile is very bland 

In the City as the sun sinks low ; 
And her hansom jingles onward, but her little jeweled hand 
Is clenched a little tighter and she cannot understand 
What she wants or why she wanders to that undiscovered land, 
For the parties there are not at all the sort of thing she 
planned, 

In the land where the dead dreams go. 

There's a rowing man that listens and his heart is crying out 

In the City as the sun sinks low; 
For the barge, the eight, the Isis, and the coach's whoop and 

shout, 
For the minute-gun, the counting and the long dishevelled 

rout. 
For the howl along the tow-path and a fate that's still in doubt. 
For a roughened oar to handle and a race to think about 
In the land where the dead dreams go. 

There's a laborer that listens to the voices of the dead 

In the City as the sun sinks low; 
And his hand begins to tremble and his face to smoulder red 
As ho sees a loafer watching him and — there he turns his head 
And stares into the sunset where his April love is fled, 
For he hears her softly singing and his lonely soul is led 

Through the land where the dead dreams go. 

There's an old and haggard demi-rep, it's ringing in her ears, 

In the City as the sun sinks low ; 
With the wild and empty sorrow of the love that blights and 

sears, 3,tvA 

Oh, and if she hurries onward, then be sure, be sure she hears. 
Hears and bears the bitter burden of the unforgotten years. 



()W 



38 MODERN VERSE 

And her laug:h's a little harsher and her eyes are brimmed 
with tears 
For the land where the dead dreams go. 

There's a barrel-organ caroling across a golden street 

In the City as the snn sinks low ; 
Though the music's only Verdi there's a world to make it 

sweet 
Just as yonder yellow sunset where the earth and heaven meet 
Mellows all the sooty City ! Hark, a hundred thousand feet 
Are marching on to glory through the poppies and the wheat 

In the land where the dead dreams go. 

So it 's Jeremiah, Jeremiah, 

What have you to say 
"When you meet the garland girls 

Tripping on their way? 

All around my gala hat 

I wear a wreath of roses 
(A long and lonely year it is 

I've waited for the May!) 
If any one should ask you, 

The reason why I wear it is — 
My own love, my true love 

Is coming home to-day. 

And it's buy a bunch of violets for the lady 

(It's lilac-time in London; it's lilac-time in London!) 

Buy a buncli of violets for the lady 
While the sky burns blue above : 

. On the other side of the street you'll find it shady 

(It's lilac-time in London; it's lilac-time in London!) 



THE CITY 39 

But buy a bunch of violets for the lady 
And tell her she's your own true love. 

There's a barrel-organ caroling across a golden street 

In the City as the sun sinks glittering and slow ; 
And the music's not immortal ; but the world has made it sweet 
And enriched it with the harmonies that make a song complete 
In the deeper heavens of music where the night and morning 
meet, 

As it dies into the sunset-glow; 
And it pulses through the pleasures of the City and the pain 

That surround the singing organ like a large eternal light, 
And they've given it a glory and a part to play again 

In the Symphony that rules the day and night. 

And there, as the music changes, 

The song runs round again. 
Once more it turns and ranges 

Through all its joy and pain, 
Dissects the common carnival 

Of passions and regrets ; 
And the wheeling world remembers all 

The wheeling song forgets. 

Once more La Traviata sighs 

Another sadder song : 
Once more II Trovatore cries 
A tale of deeper wrong ; 
Once more the knights to battle go 

With sword and shield and lance 
Till once, once more, the shattered foe 
Has whirled into — a dance! 



40 MODERN VERSE 

Come down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time; 

Come down to Kew in lilac-time {it isn't far from London!) 
And yon shall wander hand in hand with love in summer's 
wonderland; 
Come down to Kew in lilac-time {it isn't far from London!) 

— Alfred Noyes 



THE COUNTRY 



THE GREEN INN 

I sicken of men's company, 
The crowded tavern's din, 

Where all day long with oath and song 
Sit they who entrance win, 

So come I out from noise and rout 
To rest in God's Green Inn. 

Here none may mock an empty purse 
Or ragged coat and poor, 

But Silence waits within the gates, 
And Peace beside the door; 

The weary guest is welcomest, 
The richest pays no score. 

The roof is high and arched and blue, 
The floor is spread with pine ; 

On my four walls the sunlight falls 
In golden flecks and fine ; 

And swift and fleet on noiseless feet 
The Four Winds bring me wine. 

Upon my board they set their store — 
Great drinks mixed cunningly, 

Wherein the scent of furze is blent 
With odor of the sea ; 

As from a cup I drink it up 
To thrill the veins of me. 

It's I will sit m God's Green Inn 

Unvexed by man or ghost. 
Yet ever fed and comforted, 

43 



44 MODERN VERSE 

Companioned by mine host, 
And watched at night by that white light 
High swung from coast to coast. 

Oh, you who in the House of Strife 

Quarrel and game and sin, 
Come out and see what cheer may be 

For starveling souls and thin, 
Who come at last from drought and fast 

To sit in God's Green Inn. 

— Theodosia Garrison 



THE FEET OF THE YOUNG MEN 

1897 

Now the Four-way Lodge is opened, now the Hunting Winds 

are loose — 
Now the Smokes of Spring go up to clear the brain ; 
Now the Young Men's hearts are troubled for the whisper of 
the Trues, 
Now the Red Gods make their medicine again ! 
Who hath seen the beaver busied? Who hath watched the 
black-tail mating? 
Who hath lain alone to hear the wild-goose cry? 
Who hath worked the chosen water where the ouananiche is 
waiting 
Or the sea-trout's jumping-crazy for the fly? 



THE COUNTRY 45 

He must go — go — go aicay from here! 

On the other side the world he's overdue. 
'Send your road is char before you when the old Spring- 
fret comes o'er you. 
And the Red Gods call for you! 

So for one the wet sail archingc through the rainbow round 
the bow. 
And for one the creak of snow-shoes on the crust ; 
And for one the lakeside lilies where the bull-moose waits the 
cow, 
And for one the mule-train couKhino; in the dust. 
Who hath smelt wood-smoke at twilight? Who hath heard 
the birch-log burning? 
Who is quick to read the noises of the night? 
Let him follow with the others, for the Young Men's feet are 
turning 
To the camps of proved desire and known delight ! 

Let him go — go, etc. 



Do you know the blackened timber — do you know that racing 
stream 
With the raw, right-angled log-jam at the end ; 
And the bar of sun-warmed shingle where a man may bask 
and dream 
To the click of shod canoe-poles round the bend? 
It is there that we are going with our rods and reels and 
traces, 
To a silent, smok}- Indian that we know — 



46 MODERN VERSE 

To a couch of new-pulled hemlock, with the starlight on our 
faces, 
For the Red Gods call us out and we must go! 

They must go — go, etc. 

II 

Do you know the shallow Baltic where the seas are steep and 
short, 
Where the bluff, lee-boarded fishing-luggers ride? 
Do you know the joy of threshing leagues to leeward of your 
port 
On a coast you've lost the chart of overside? 
It is there that I am going, with an extra hand to bale her — 

Just one able 'long-shore loafer that I know. 
He can take his chance of drowning, while I sail and sail and 
sail her, 
For the Red Gods call me out and I must go ! 

He must go — go, etc. 

Ill 

Do you know the pile-built village where the sago-dealers 
trade — 

Do you know the reek of fish and wet bamboo ? 
Do you know the steaming stillness of the orchid-scented glade 

When the blazoned, bird-winged butterflies flap through? 
It is there that I am going with \w\ camplior, net and boxes, 

To a gentle, yellow pirate that I know — 
To my little wailing lemurs, to my palms and flying-foxes, 

For the Red Gods call me out and I must go ! 

He must go — go, etc. ,. v 



THE COUNTRY 47 

IV 

Do you know the world's white roof-tree — do you know that 
windy rift 
Where the baffling mountain-eddies chop and change? 
Do you know the long day's patience, belly-down on frozen 
drift, 
While the head of heads is feeding out of range? 
It is there that I am going, where the boulders and the snow 
lie, 
With a trusty, nimble tracker that I know. 
I have sworn an oatli, to keep it on the Horns of Ovis Poll, 
And the Red Gods call me out and I must go ! 
He must go — go, etc. 

Now the Four-way Lodge is opened — now the Smokes of 
Council rise — 
Pleasant smokes, ere yet 'twixt trail and trail they choose — 
Now the girths and ropes are tested: now they pack their last 
supplies: 
Now our Young Men go to dance before the Trues! 
Who shall meet them at those altars — who shall light them to 
that shrine? 
Velvet-footed, who shall guide them to their goal? 
Unto each the voice and vision : unto each his spoor and sign — 
Lonely mountain in the Northland, misty sweat-bath 'neath 
the Line — 
And to each a man that knows his naked soul ! 
White or yellow, black or copper, he is waiting, as a lover. 

Smoke of funnel, dust of hooves, or beat of train — 
Where the high grass hides the horseman or the glaring flats 

discover — 
Where the steamer hails the landing, or the surf-boat brings 
the rover — 



48 MODERN VERSE 

Where the rails run out in sand-drift . . . Quick! ah heave 
the camp-kit over, 
For the Red Gods make their medicine again ! 

And ive go — go — go away from here! 

071 the other side the world iveWe overdue! 
'Send the road is clear before you when the old Spring- 
fret conies o'er you, 
And the Red Gods call for you! 

Rudyard Kipling 



TO THE THAWING WIND 

Come with rain, loud Southwester ! 
Bring the singer, bring the nester ; 
Give the buried flower a dream; 
Make the settled snow-bank steam; 
Find the brown beneath the white ; 
But whatever you do to-night, 
Bathe my window, make it flow, 
Melt it as the ices go ; 
Melt the glass and leave the sticks 
Like a hermit's crucifix; 
Burst into my narrow stall ; 
Swing the picture on the wall ; 
Run the rattling pages o'er; 
Scatter poems on the floor ; 
Turn the poet out of door. 

— Robert Frost 



THE COUNTRY 49 



MISTER HOP-TOAD * 

Howdy, Mister Hop-Toad ! Glad to see you out ! 

Bin a month o' Sundays senee I seen you hereabout. 
Kind o' bin a-layin' in, from the frost and snow? 
Good to see you out ag'in, it's bin so long ago! 
Plows like sliein' cheese, and sod's loppin' over even; 
Loam's like gingerbread, and clods 's softer 'n deceivin' — 
Mister Hop-Toad, honest-true — Springtime — don't you love it? 
You old rusty rascal you, at the bottom of it ! 

Oh, oh, oh! 
I grabs up my old hoe ; 
But I sees you, 
And s' I, "Ooh-ooh! 
Howdy, Mister Hop-Toad! How-dee-do!" 

Make yourse'f more cumfo'bler — square round at your ease — 
Don't set saggin' slanchwise, with your nose below your knees. 
Swell that fat old throat o' yourn and lemme see you swaller; 
Straighten up and hi'st your head! — You don't owe a 

dollar! — 
Hain't no mor'gage on your land — ner no taxes, nuther; 
You don't haf to work no roads — even ef you'd ruther ! 
'F I was you, and fixed like you, I railly wouldn't keer 
To swop f er life and hop right in the presidential cheer ! 

Oh, oh, oh ! 

I hauls back my old hoe; 

* From the Biographical Edition of the Complete Works of James 
Whitcomb Riley, copyright 1913. Used by special permission of the 
publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Company. 



50 MODERN VERSE 

But I sees you, 
And s' I, "Ooh-ooh! 
Howdy, Mister Hop-Toad ! How-dee-do ! ' ' 

Long about next Aprile, hoppin' down the furry, 

Won't you mind I ast you what 'peared to be the hurry? — 

Won't you mind I hooked my hoe and hauled you back and 

smiled? — 
W'y bless you. Mister Hop-Toad, I love you like a child! 
S'pose I'd want to 'flict you any more'n what j'ou air? — 
S'pose I think you got no rights 'eept the warts you wear? 
Hulk, sulk, and blink away, you old bloat-eyed rowdy ! — 
Hain 't you got a word to say ? — Won 't you tell me ' ' Howdy ' ' ? 

Oh, oh, oh! 

I swish round my old hoe ; 
But I sees you, 
And s' I, "Ooh-ooh! 
Howdy, Mister Hop-Toad! How-dee-do!" 

— James Whitcomh Riley 



TO A POET 



(by spring) 



Yes, Poet, I am coming down to earth, 

To spend the merry months of blossom-time ; 

But don 't break out in pagans of glad mirth 
(Expressed in hackneyed rhyme.) 



THE COUNTRY . 51 

For once, dear Poet, won't you kindly skip 
Your ode of welcome ? It is such a bore ; 
I am no chicken, and I've made the trip 
Six thousand times or more. 

And as I flutter earthward every year, 
You must admit that it grows rather stale 

When I arrive, repeatedly to hear 
The same old annual "Hail"! 

Time was when I enjoyed the poet's praise, 
Will Shakspere's song, or Mr. Milton's hymn; 

Or even certain little twittering lays 
By ladies quaint and prim. 

Chaucer and Spenser filled me with delight, — 
And how I loved to hear Bob Herrick woo 1 

Old Omar seemed to think I was all right, 
And Aristotle, too. 

But I am sated with this fame and glory, 
Oh, Poet, leave Parnassian heights unsealed ; 

This time let me be spared the same old story, 
And come for once unhailed ! 

— Carolyn Wells 



MAY IS BUILDING HER HOUSE 

May is building her house. With apple blooms 

She is roofing over the glimmering rooms; 

Of the oak and the beech hath she budded its beams, 



52 . MODERN VERSE 

And, spinning all day at her secret looms, 
"With arras of leaves each wind-sprayed wall 
She pictureth over, and peopleth it all 

With echoes and dreams, 

And singing of streams. 

May is building her house of petal and blade; 
Of the roots of the oak is the flooring made. 
With a carpet of mosses and lichen and clover, 
Each small miracle over and over, 
And tender, traveling green things strayed. 

Her windows the morning and evening star, 
And her rustling doorways, ever ajar 

With the coming and going 

Of fair things blowing. 
The thresholds of the four winds are. 

May is building her house. From the dust of things 
She is making the songs and the flowers and the wings; 
From October's tossed and trodden gold 
She is making the young year out of the old; 
Yea ! out of the winter 's flying sleet 
She is making all the summer sweet. 
And the brown leaves spurned of November's feet 
She is changing back again to spring's. 

— Richard Le Gallienne 



THE COUNTRY 53 



A MOUNTAIN GATEWAY * 

I know a vale where I would go one day, 

When June comes back and all the world once more 

Is glad with summer. Deep with shade it lies, 

A mighty cleft in the green bosoming hills, 

A cool, dim gateway to the mountains' heart. 

On either side the wooded slopes come down. 
Hemlock and beech and chestnut ; here and there 
Through the deep forest laurel spreads and gleams, 
Pink-white as Daphne in her loveliness — 
That still perfection from the world withdrawn. 
As if the wood gods had arrested there 
Immortal beauty in her breathless tlight. 

Far overhead against the arching blue 
Gray ledges overhang from dizzy heights 
Scarred by a thousand winters and untamed. 
The road winds in from the broad riverlands, 
Luring the happy traveler turn by turn, 
Up to the lofty mountain of the sky. 

And where the road runs in the valley's foot, 

Through the dark woods the mountain stream comes down, 

Singing and dancing all its youth away 

Among the boulders and the shallow runs, 

Where sunbeams pierce and mossy tree trunks hang. 

Drenched all day long with murmuring sound and spray. 

There, light of heart and footfree, I would go 

* From April Airs, by Bliss Carman. Copyrifiht, 1916, by Small, 
Maynard and Company. Inc. Reprinted by permission of the publishers, 
Small, Maynard and Company, Inc. 



54 MODERN VERSE 

Up to my home among tbe lasling hills, 
. And in my cabin doorway sit me down, 
Companioned in that leafy solitude 
By the wood ghosts of twilight and of peace. 

And in that sweet seclusion I should hear. 

Among the cool-leafed beeches in the dusk, 

The calm-voiced thrushes at their evening hymn — 

So undistraught, so rapturous, so pure, 

It well might be, in wisdom and in joy, 

The seraphs singing at the birth of time 

The unworn ritual of eternal things. 

— Bliss Carman., 



HAYMAKING 

After night's thunder far away had rolled. 

The fiery day had a kernel sweet of cold, 

And in the perfect blue the clouds uncurled. 

Like the first gods before they made the world 

And misery, swimming the stormless sea 

In beauty and in divine gaiety. 

The smooth white empty road was lightly strewn 

With leaves — the holly's Autumn falls in June- 

And fir cones standing stiff up in the heat. 

The mill-foot water tumbled white and lit 

With tossing crystals, happier than any crowd 

Of children pouring out of school aloud. 

And in the little thickets where a sleeper 

Forever might lie lost, the nettle-creeper 

And garden warbler sang unceasingly ; 

While over them shrill shrieked in his fierce glee 

The swift with wings and tail as sharp and narrow 



THE COUNTRY ., 55 

As if the bow had flown off with the arrow. 
Only the scent of woodbine and hay new-mown 
Traveled the road. In the field sloping down, 
Park-like, to where its willows showed the brook. 
Haymakers rested. The tosser lay forsook 
Out in the sun ; and the long- wagon stood 
"Without its team ; it seemed it never would 
Move from the shadow of that single 3'ew. 
The team, as still, until their task was due, 
Beside the laborers enjoyed the shade 
That three squat oaks mid-field together made 
Upon a circle of grass and weed uncut, 
And on the hollow, once a chalk-pit, but 
Now brimmed with nut and elder-flower so clean. 
The men leaned on their rakes, about to begin, 
But still. And all were silent. All was old. 
This morning time, with a great age untold. 
Older than Clare and Cobbett, Morland and Crome, 
Than, at the field's far edge, the farmer's home, 
A white house crouched at the foot of a great tree. 
Under the heavens that know not what years be 
The men, the beasts, the trees, the implements 
Uttered even what they will in times far hence — 
All of us gone out of the reach of change — 
Immortal in a picture of an old grange. 

— Edward Thomas 



56 MODERN VERSE 

AN INDIAN SUMMER DAY ON THE 
PRAIRIE * 

(in the beginning) 

The sun is a huntress young, 
The sun is a red, red joy, 
The sun is an Indian girl, 
Of the tribe of the Illinois. 

(mid-morning) 

The sun is a smoldering fire, 

That creeps through the high gray plain. 

And leaves not a bush of cloud 

To blossom with flowers of rain. 

( NOON ) 

The sun is a wounded deer. 
That treads pale grass in the skies, 
Shaking his golden horns, 
Flashing his baleful eyes. 

(sunset) 

The sun is an eagle old, 
There in the windless west. 
Atop of the spirit-cliffs 
He builds him a crimson nest. 

— Vachel Lindsay 



* From The Congo, by Vachel Lindsay. Used by special permission 
of The Macmillan Company, publishers. 



THE COUNTRY 57 



A GREETING 

Good morning, Life — and all 
Things glad and beautiful. 
My pockets nothing hold, 
But he that owns the gold, 
The Sun, is my great friend — 
His spending has no end. 

Hail to the morning sky, 
Which bright clouds measure high; 
Hail to you birds whose throats 
Would number leaves by notes; 
Hail to you shady bowers, 
And you green fields of flowers. 

Hail to you women fair. 
That make a show so rare 
In cloth as white as milk — 
Be't calico or silk: 
Good morning, Life — and all 
Things glad and beautiful. 

— William H. Davies 



58 MODERN VERSE 

A VAGABOND SONG * 

There is something in the autumn that is native to my blood — 

Touch of manner, hint of mood ; 

And my heart is like a rhyme, 

With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping time. 

The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry 

Of bugles going by 

And my lonely spirit thrills 

To see the frosty asters like a smoke upon the hills. 

There is something in October sets the gypsy blood astir; 

We must rise and follow her, 

When from every hill of flame 

She calls and calls each vagabond by name. 

— Bliss Carman and Richard Hovey 



THREE PIECES ON THE SMOKE OF 
AUTUMN 

Smoke of autumn is on it all. 

The streamers loosen and travel. 

The red west is stopped with a gray haze. 

They fill the ash trees, they wrap the oaks. 

They make a long-tailed rider 

In the pocket of the first, the earliest evening star. 



* From More Songs from Vagabondin, by Bliss Carman and Richard 
Hovey. Copyright, 1896, by Bliss Carman and Richard Hovey. 



THE COUNTRY 50 

Three muskrats swim west on the Desplaines River. 

There is a sheet of red ember glow on the river; it is dusk; 
and the muskrats one by one go on patrol routes west. 

Around each slippery padding rat, a fan of ripples; in the 
silence of dusk a faint wash of ripples, the padding of the 
rats going west, in a dark and shivering river gold. 

(A newspaper in my pocket says the Germans pierce the 
Italian line; I have letters from poets and sculptors in 
Greenwich Village; I have letters from an ambulance 
man in France and an I. W. W. man in Vladivostok.) 

I lean on an ash and watch the lights fall, the red ember glov/, 
and three muskrats swim west in a fan of ripples on a 
sheet of river gold. 



Better the blue silence and the gray west, 

The autumn mist on the river, 

And not any hate and not any love, 

And not anything at all of the keen and the deep; 

Only the peace of a dog head on a barn floor. 

And the new corn shoveled in bushels 

And the pumpkins brought from the corn rows, 

Umber lights of the dark. 

Umber lanterns of the loam dark. 

Here a dog head dreams. 

Not any hate, not any love. 

Not anything but dreams. 

Brother of dusk and umber. 

— Carl Sandhurg 



60 MODERN VERSE 



GOD'S WORLD 

O world, I cannot hold thee close enough ! 

Thy winds, thy wide gray skies! 

Thy mists that roll and rise ! 
Thy woods this autumn day, that ache and sag 
And all but cry with color! That gaunt crag 
To crush! To lift the lean of that black bluff! 
World, World, I cannot get thee close enough ! 

Long have I known a glory in it all. 

But never knew I this; 

Here such a passion is 

As stretcheth me apart, Lord, I do fear 

Thou'st made the world too beautiful this year; 
My soul is all but out of me, — let fall 
No burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call. 

— Edna St. Vincent Millay 



AFTER APPLE-PICKING 

My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree 

Toward heaven still, 

And there's a barrel that I didn't fill 

Beside it, and there may be two or three 

Apples I didn't pick upon some bough. 

But I am done with apple-picking now. 

Essence of winter sleep is on the night, 

The scent of apples : I am drowsing off. 

I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight 



THE COUNTRY 61 

I got from looking through a pane of glass 

I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough 

And held against the world of hoary grass. 

It melted, and I let it fall and break. 

But I was well 

Upon my way to sleep before it fell, 

And I could tell 

What form my dreaming was about to take. 

Magnified apples appear and disappear, 

Stem end and blossom end, 

And every fleck of russet showing clear. 

My instep arch not only keeps the ache. 

It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round. 

I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend. 

And I keep hearing from the cellar bin 

The rumbling sound 

Of load on load of apples coming in. 

For I have had too much 

Of apple-picking : I am overtired 

Of the great harvest I myself desired. 

There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch. 

Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall. 

For all 

That struck the earth, 

No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble. 

Went surely to the cider-apple heap 

As of no worth. 

One can see what will trouble 

This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is. 

Were he not gone. 

The woodchuck could say whether it's like his 

Long sleep, as I describe its coming on, 

Or just some human sleep. 

— Robert Frost 



62 MODERN VERSE 



BROTHER BEASTS * 

Winter is here 
And there are no leaves 
On the naked trees, 
Save stars twinkling 
As the wind blows. 
Soft to the branches 
The little screech-owl 
Silently comes. 
Silently goes, 
With weird tremolos. 

I would go out 
And gather the stars 
The wind shakes down. 
Were they not scattered 
So far in the West. 
I would go ask 
The little screech-owl 
If he finds ease 
There in his nest 
After his quest. 

I would go learn 
If the small gray mouse 
Who sets up house 
In the frozen meadow 
Dreams of the stars. 
Or what he thinks 

* Taken from Wraiths and Realities, by Cale Young Rice, by permis- 
sion of tlie publishors, The Century Co. 



THE COUNTRY 63 

There in the dark, 
When flake on flake 
Of white snow bars 
Him in with its spars. 

I would go out 

And learn these things 

That I may know 

What dream or desire 

Troubles my brothers 

In nest or hole. 

For even as I 

The owl and the mouse. 

Or blinded mole 

With unborn soul, 

May have some goal. 

— Cale Young Rice 



BIRCHES 

When I see birches bend to left and right 

Across the lines of straighter darker trees, 

I like to think some boy's been swinging them. 

But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay. 

Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them 

Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning 

After a rain. They click upon themselves 

As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored 

As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel. 

Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells 

Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust — 



64 ^ MODERN VERSE 

Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away 

You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen. 

They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load, 

And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed 

So low for long, they never right themselves: 

You may see their trunks arching in the woods 

Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground 

Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair 

Before them over their heads to dry in the sun. 

But I was going to say when Truth broke in 

"With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm 

(Now am I free to be poetical?) 

I should prefer to have some boy bend them 

As he went out and in to fetch the cows — 

Some boy too far from town to learn baseball. 

Whose only play was what he found himself, 

Summer or winter, and could play alone. 

One by one he subdued his father's trees 

By riding them down over and over again 

Until he took the stiffness out of them. 

And not one but hung limp, not one was left 

For him to conquer. He learned all there was 

To learn about not launching out too soon 

And so not carrying the tree away 

Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise 

To the top branches, climbing carefully 

With the same pains you use to fill a cup 

Up to the brim, and even above the brim. 

Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish, 

Kicking his way down through the air to the ground. 

So was I once myself a swinger of birches. 

And so I dream of going back to be. 

It's when I'm weary of considerations, 

And life is too much like a pathless wood 



THE COUNTRY 65 

Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs 

Broken across it, and one eye is weeping 

From a twig's having lashed across it open. 

I'd like to get away from earth awhile 

And then come back to it and begin over. 

May no fate willfully misunderstand me 

And half grant what I wish and snatch me away 

Not to return. Earth's the right place for love: 

I don't know where it's likely to go better. 

I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree, 

And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk 

Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more, 

But dipped its top and set me down again. 

That would be good both going and coming back. 

One could do worse than be a swinger of birches. 

— Robert Frost 



HIGHMOUNT 

Hills, you have answered the craving 

That spurred me to come ; 
You have opened your deep blue bosom 

And taken me home. 

The sea had filled me with the stress 

Of its own restlessness ; 

My voice was in that angry roll 

Of passion beating upon the world. 

The ground beneath me shifted; I was swirled 

In an implacable flood that howled to see 

Its breakers rising in me, 

A torrent rushing through my soul. 

And tearing things free 



(c--/ 



66 , MODERN VERSE 

I could not control. 

A monstrous impatience, a stubborn and vain 

Repetition of madness and longing, of question and pain, 

Driving me up to the brow of this hill — 

Calling and questioning still. 

And you — you smile 

In ordered calm ; 

You wrap yourself in cloudy contemplation while 

The winds go shouting their heroic psalm, 

The streams press lovingly about your feet 

And trees, like birds escaping from the heat. 

Sit in great flocks and fold their broad green wings. . . . 

A cow bell rings 

Like a sound blurred by sleep. 

Giving the silence a rhythm 

That makes it twice as deep. . , . 

Somewhere a farm-hand sings. . . . 

And here you stand 

Breasting the elemental sea, 

And put forth an invisible hand 

To comfort me. 

Rooted in quiet confidence, you rise 

Above the frantic and assailing years; 

Your silent faith is louder than the cries; 

The shattering fears 

Break and subside when they encounter you. 

You know their doubts, the desperate questions — 

And the answers too. 

Hills, you are strong ; and my burdens 

Are scattered like foam. 
You have opened your deep, blue bosom 

And taken me home. 

— Louis Untermeyer 



THE COUNTRY 67 



A VIGNETTE 

Among the meadows 

lightly going, 
"With worship and joy 

my heart o'erflowing, 

Far from town 
and toil of living, 

To a holy day 

my spirit giving, , . , 

* * * 

Thon tender flower, 
I kneel beside thee 

Wondering why God 
so beautified thee. — 

An answering thought 
within me springeth, 

A bloom of the mind 
her vision bringeth. 

Between the dim hill's 

distant azure 
And flowery foreground 

of sparkling pleasure 

I see the company 
of figures sainted. 

For whom the picture 
of earth was painted. 



68 MODERN VERSE 

Those robed seers 

who made man's story 

The crown of Nature, 
Her cause his glory. 



They walk in the city 

which they have builded. 
The city of God 

from evil shielded : 

To them for canopy 

the vault of heaven. 
The flowery earth 

for carpet is given; 

"Whereon I wander 

not unknowing, 
With worship and joy 

my heart o'erflowing. 

— Robert Bridges 



THE WORLD'S MISER* 

1 

A miser with an eager face 

Sees that each roseleaf is in place. 

* Reprinted with permission from Poems, by Thecdore Maynard. 
Copyright, 1919, Frederick A. Stokes Company. 



THE COUNTRY 69 

He keeps beneath strong bolts and bars 
The piercing beauty of the stars. 

The colours of the dying day 

He hoards as treasure — well He may ! 

And saves with care (lest they be lost) 
The dainty diagrams of frost. 

He counts the hairs of every head, 
And grieves to see a sparrow dead. 



II 

Among the yellow primroses 
He holds His summer palaces, 

And sets the grass about them all 
To guard them as His spearmen small. 

He fixes on each wayside stone 
A mark to shew it as His Own, 

And knows when raindrops fall through air 
Whether each single one be there. 

That gathered into ponds and brooks 
They may become His picture-books, 

To shew in every spot and place 
The living glory of His face. 

— Theodore Maynard 



70 MODERN VERSE 



GOOD COMPANY 

To-day I have gfrown taller from walking with the trees. 
The seven sister-poplars who go softly in a line ; 
And I think my heart is whiter for its parley with a star 
That trembled out at nightfall and hung above the pine. 

The call-note of a redbird from the cedars in the dusk. 
AA^oke his happy mate within me to an answer free and fine; 
And a sudden angel beckoned from a column of blue smoke — 
Lord, who am 1 that they should stoop — these holy folk of 
thine? 

— Karle Wilsoji Baker 



IRRADIATIONS 



The trees, like great jade elephants. 

Chained, stamp and shake 'neath the gadflies of the breeze; 
The trees lunge and plunge, unruly elephants : 
The clouds are their crimson howdah-canopies. 
The sunlight glints like the golden robe of a Shah. 
AVould I were tossed on the wrinkled backs of those trees. 

— John Gould Fletcher 



THE COUNTRY 71 



TREES * 

I think that I shall never see 
A poem lovely as a tree. 

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest 
Against the earth 's sweet flowing breast ; 

A tree that looks at God all day 
And lifts her leafy arms to pray; 

A tree that may in Summer wear 
A nest of robins in her hair; 

Upon whose bosom snow has lain; 
Who intimately lives with rain. 

Poems are made by fools like me. 
But only God can make a tree. 

Joyce Kilmer 



NIGHT-PIECE * 

Ye hooded witches, baleful shapes that moan, 
Quench your fantastic lanterns and be still ; 

* From Joyce Kilmer; Poems, Essays, and Letters, copyriglit 1918, 
George H. Doran Company, publishers. 

* Taken by permission from The Old IJunfsman, by Siegfried Sassoon, 
copyrighted by E. P. Button & Co., New York. 



72 MODERN VERSE 

For now the moon through heaven sails alone, 
Shedding her peaceful rays from hill to hill. 
The faun from out his dim and secret place 
Draws nigh the darkling pool and from his dream 
Plalf-wakens, seeing there his sylvan face 
Reflected, and the wistful eyes that gleam. 

To his cold lips he sets the pipe to blow 

Some drowsy note that charms the listening air: 

The dryads from their trees come down and creep 

Near to his side ; monotonous and low, 

He plays and plays till all the woodside there 

Stirs to the voice of everlasting sleep. 

— Siegfried Sassoon 



THE FINAL SPURT 

From Reynard, the Fox* 

At the sixth green field came the long slow climb. 

To the Mourne End Wood as old as time 

Yew woods dark, where they cut for bows, 

Oak woods green with the mistletoes, 

Dark woods evil, but burrowed deep 

"With a brock's earth strong, where a fox might sleep. 

He saw his point on the heaving hill, 

He had failing flesh and a reeling will. 

He felt the heave of the hill grow stiff. 

He saw black woods, which would shelter — If — 

* From Reynard the Fox. by John Masefield. Used by special per- 
mission of The Macmilhin Company, publishers. 



THE COUNTRY 73 

Nothing else, but the steepening slope, 

And a black line nodding, a line of hope 

The line of the yews on the long slope's brow, 

A mile, three-quarters, a half-mile now. 

A quarter-mile, but the hounds had viewed 

They yelled to have him this side the wood, 

Robin capped them, Tom Dansey steered them 

With a "Yooi, Yooi, Yooi," Bill Ridden cheered them, 

Then up went hackles as Shatterer led, 

'']\Iob him," cried Ridden, "the wood's ahead. 

Turn him, damn it ; Yooi, beauties, beat him, 

O God, let them get him ; let them eat him. 

O God," said Ridden, "I'll eat him stewed. 

If you'll let us get him this side the wood." 

But the pace, uphill, made a horse like stone, 

The pack went wild up the hill alone. 

Three hundred yards, and the worst was past, 

The slope was gentler and shorter-grassed. 

The fox saw the bulk of the woods grow tall 

On the brae ahead like a barrier-wall. 

He saw the skeleton trees show sky, 

And the yew trees darken to see him die. 

And the line of the woods go reeling l)lack; 

There was hope in the woods, and behind, the pack. 

Two hundred yards, and the trees grew taller, 
Blacker, blinder, as hope grew smaller, 
Cry seemed nearer, the teeth seemed gripping 
Pulling him back, his pads seemed slipping. 
He was all one ache, one gasp, one thirsting, 
Heart on his chest-bones, beating, bursting. 
The hounds were gaining like spotted pards 
And the wood-hedge still was a hundred vards. 



74 MODERN VERSE 

The wood hedge black was a two year, quick 
Cut-and-laid that had sprouted thick 
Thorns all over, and strongly plied, 
With a clean red ditch on the take-off side. 

He saw it now as a redness, topped 

With a wattle of thorn-work spiky cropped, 

Spiky to leap on, stitl' to force, 

No safe jump for a failing horse, 

But beyond it, darkness of yews together, 

Dark green plumes over soft brown feather. 

Darkness of woods where scents were blowing 

Strange scents, hot scents, of wild things going, 

Scents that might draw these hounds away. 

So he ran, ran, ran to that clean red clay, 

Still, as he ran, his pads slipped back. 
All his strength seemed to draw the pack, 
The trees drew over him dark like Norns, 
He was over the ditch and at the thorns. 

He thrust at the thorns, which would not yield, 
He leaped, but fell, in sight of the tield, 
The hounds went wild as they saw him fall. 
The fence stood stiff like a Buck's flint wall. 

He gathered himself for a new attempt, 
His life before was an old dream dreamt. 
All that he was was a blown fox quaking, 
Jumping at thorns too stiff for breaking. 
While over the grass in crowd, in cry. 
Came the grip teeth grinning to make him die, 
The eyes intense, dull, smoldering red. 
The fell like a ruft' round each keen head, 



THE COUNTRY 75 

The pace like fire, and scarlet men 
Galloping-, yelling-, "Yooi, e.;t him, then." 
He gathered himself, he leaped, he reached 
The top of the hedge like a fish-boat beached. 
He steadied a second and then leaped down 
To the dark of the wood where bright things drown. 

— John Maseficld 



THE HORSE THIEF 

There he moved, cropping the grass at the pnrple canyon's 

lip. 
His mane was mixed with the moonlight that silvered 

his snow-white side, 
For the moon sailed out of a cloud with the wake of a spectral 
ship. 
I crouched and I crawled on my belly, my lariat coil looped 
wide. 

Dimly and dark the mesas broke on the starry sky. 

A pall covered every color of their gorgeous glory at noon. 
I smelt the yucca and mesquite, and stifled my heart's t[uick 
cry, 
And wormed and crawled on my belly to where he moved 
against the moon ! 

Some Moorish barb was that mustang's sire. His lines were 
beyond all wonder. 
From the prick of his ears to the flow of his tail he ached in 
my throat and eyes. 



76 MODERN VERSE 

Steel and velvet grace! As the prophet says, God had 
"clothed his neck with thunder". 
Oh, marvelous with the drifting cloud he drifted across the 
skies ! 

And then I was near at hand — crouched, and balanced, and 
east the coil ; 
And the moon was smothered in cloud, and the rope 
through my hands with a rip ! 
But somehow I gripped and clung, with the blood in my brain 
aboil, — 
With a turn round the rugged tree-stump there on the 
purple canyon's lip. 

Right into the stars he reared aloft, his red eye rolling and 
raging. 
He whirled and sunfished and lashed, and rocked the earth 
to thunder and flame. 
He squealed like a regular devil horse. I was haggard and 
spent and aging — 
Roped clean, but almost storming clear, his fury too fierce 
to tame. 

And I cursed myself for a tenderfoot moon-dazzled to play 

the part, 
But I was doubly desperate then, with the posse pulled out 

from town. 
Or I 'd never have tried it. I only knew I must get a mount 

and a start. 
The filly had snapped her foreleg short. I had had to shoot 

her down. 

So there he struggled and strangled, and I snubbed him 
around the tree. 
Nearer, a little nearer — hoofs planted, and lolling tongue — 



THE COUNTRY . 77 

Till a sudden slack pitched me backward. He reared right 
on top of me. 
Mother of God — that moment ! He missed me . . . and 
up I swung. 

Somehow, gone daft completely and clawing a buncb of his 
mane, 
As he stumbled and tripped in the lariat, there 1 was — up 
and astride. 
And cursing for seven counties! And the mustang? Just 

insane! 
Crack-bang ! went the rope ; we cannoned off the tree — then 
— gods, that ride ! 

A rocket — that's all, a rocket! I dug with my teeth and 
nails. 
Why, we never hit even the high spots (though I hardly 
remember things). 
But I heard a monstrous booming like a thunder of flapping 
sails 
When he spread — well, call me a liar! — when he spread 
those wings, those wings ! 

So white that my eyes were blinded, thick-feathered and 

wide unfurled 

They beat the air into billows. We sailed, and the earth 

was gone. 

Canyon and desert and mesa withered below, with the world. 

And then I knew that mustang; for I — was Bellerophon ! 

Yes, glad as the Greek, and mounted on a horse of the elder 
gods, 
With never a magic bridle or a fountain-mirror nigh! 



78 . MODERN VEKSE 

My chaps and spurs and holster must have looked it? Wliat's 
the odds? 
I'd a leg over lightning and thunder, careering across the 
sky! 

And forever streaming before me, fanning my forehead cool, 

Flowed a mane of molten silver; and just before my thighs 

(As I gripped his velvet-muscled ribs, wliile 1 cursed 

myself for a fool), 

The steady pulse of those pinions — their wonderful fall and 

rise! 

The bandanna I bought in Bowie blew loose and whipped 
from m^^ neck. 
My shirt was stuck to my shoulders and ribboning out 
behind. 
The stars were dancing, wheeling and glancing, dipping with 
smirk and beck. 
The clouds were flowing, dusking and glowing. We rode a 
roaring wind. 

We soared through the silver starlight to knock at the planets' 
gates. 
New shimmering constellations came whirling into our ken. 
Red stars and green and golden swung out of the void that 
waits 
For man 's great last adventure ; the Signs took shape — 
and then 

I knew the lines of that Centaur the moment I saw him come! 
The musical-box of the heavens all around us rolled to a 
tune 
That tinkled and chimed and trilled with silver sounds that 
struck you dumb, 
As if some archangel were grinding out the nnisie of the 
moon. 



THE COUNTRY 79 

]\Ielody-drunk on the Milky Way, as we swept and soared 
hilarious, 
Full in our pathway, sudden he stood — the Centaur of the 
Stars, 
Flashing from head and hoofs and breast ! I knew him for 
Sagittarius. 
He reared and bent and drew his bow. He crouched as 
a boxer spars. 

Flung- back on his haunches, weird he loomed — then leapt — 
and the dim void lightened. 
Old White Wrings shied and swerved aside, and tied from 
die splendor-shod. 
Through a flashing welter of worlds we charged. I knew 
why my horse was frightened. 
He had two faces — a dog's and a man's — that Babylonian 
god! 

Also, he followed us real as fear. Ping ! went an arrow past. 
]My broncho buck-jumped, humping high. We plunged 
... I guess that 's all ! 
I lay on the purple canyon's lip, when I opened my eyes at 
last- 
Stiff and sore and my head like a drum, but I broke no 
bones in the fall. 

So you know — and now j'ou may string me up. Such was 
the way you caught me. 
Thank you for letting me tell it straight, though you never 
could greatly care. 
For I took a horse that wasn't mine! . . . But there's one 
the heavens brought me, 
And I'll hang right happy, because I know he is waiting 
for me up there. 



80 MODERN VERSE 

From creamy muzzle to cannon-bone, by God, he's a peerless 
wonder ! 
He is steel and velvet and furnace-fire, and death's su- 
premest prize; 
A'nd never again shall be roped on earth that neck that is 
"clothed with thunder" . . . 
String me up, Dave ! Go dig my grave ! I rode him across 
the skies! 

— William Rose Benet 



y 



WAR 



THE RETURN * 

He went, and he was gay to go ; 
And I smiled on him as he went. 
My son — 'twas well he couldn't know 
My darkest dread, nor what it meant — 

Just what it meant to smile and smile 
And let my son go cheerily — 
My son . . . and wondering all the while 
What stranger would come back to me. 

— Wilfrid Wilson Gihson 



THE ROAD OF THE REFUGEES * 

Listen to the tramping ! Oh, God of pity, listen ! 

Can we kneel at prayer, sleep all unmolested, 
While the echo thunders? — God of pity, listen! 

Can we think of prayer — or sleep — so arrested? 

Million upon million fleeing feet in passing 

Trample down our prayers — trample down our sleeping; 

How the patient roads groan beneath the massing 
Of the feet in going, bleeding, running, creeping! 

* From Collected Poems, by \Yilfrid Wilson Gibson. Used by special 
permission of The Macmillan Company, publishers. 

* From The fiad Years, by Dora Sigerson, copyright, 1918, George H. 
Doran Company, publishers. 

83 



84 MODERN VERSE 

Clank of iron shoe, unshod hooves of cattle, 

Pad of roaming hound, creak of wheel in turning, 

Clank of dragging chain, harness ring and rattle, 
Groan of breaking beam, crash of roof-tree burning. 

Listen to the tramping ! God of love and pity ! 

jMillion upon million fleeing feet in passing 
Driven by the war out of field and city, 

How the sullen road echoes to the massing ! 

Little feet of children, running, leaping, lagging, 
Toiling feet of women, wounded, weary guiding, 

Slow feet of the aged, stumbling, halting, flagging. 
Strong feet of the men loud in passion striding. 

Hear the lost feet straying, from the roadway slipping 
They will walk no longer in this march appalling; 

Hear the sound of rain dripping, dripping, dripping, 
Is it rain or tears? What, God, is falling? 

Hear the flying feet! Lord of love and pity! 

Cnishing down our prayers, tramping down our sleeping, 
Driven by the war out of field and city. 

Million upon million, running, bleedinc, creeping. 

— Dora Sigerson 



THE BOMBARDMENT * 

Slowly, without force, the rain drops into the city. It 
stops a moment on the carved head of Saint John, then 

* From Men, Women, and Ghosts, by Amy Lowell. Used by special 
permission of The Macmillan Company, publishers. 



WAR 85 

slides on again, slipping and trickling over his stone cloak. 
It splashes from the lead conduit of a gargoyle, and falls 
from it in turmoil on the stones in the Cathedral square. 
Where are the people, and why does the fretted steeple sweep 
about in the sky? Boom! The sound swnigs against the 
rain. Boom, again ! After it, only water rushing in the 
gutters, and the turmoil from the spout of the gargoyle. 
Silence. Ripples and mutters. Boom! 

The room is damp, but warm. Little flashes swarm about 
from the firelight. The lusters of the chandelier are bright, 
and clusters of rubies leap in the bohemian glasses on the 
etagere. Her hands are restless, but the white masses of her 
hair are quite still. Boom ! Will it never cease to torture, 
this iteration ! Boom ! The vibration shatters a glass on the 
etagere. It lies there, formless and glowing, with all its crim- 
son gleams shot out of pattern, spilled, flowing red, blood-red. 
A thin bell-note pricks through the silence. A door creaks. 
The old lady speaks: "Victor, clear away that broken glass." 
"Alas! Madame, the bohemian glass!" "Yes, Victor, one 
hundred years ago my father brought it — " Boom! The 
room shakes, the servitor quakes. Another goblet shivers and 
breaks. Boom ! 

It rustles at the window-pane, the smooth, streaming rain, 
and he is shut within its clash and murmur. Inside is his 
candle, his table, his ink, his pen, and his dreams. He is 
thinking, and the walls are pierced with beams of sunshine, 
slipping through young green. A fountain tosses itself up 
at the blue sky, and through the spattered water in the basin 
he can see copper carp, lazily floating among cold leaves. A 
wind-harp in a cedar-tree grieves and whispers, and words 
blow into his brain, bubbled, iridescent, shooting up like flowers 
of fire, higher and higher. Boom ! The flame-flowers snap 



86 MODERN VERSE 

on their slender stems. The fountain rears up in long broken 
spears of dishevelled water and flattens into the earth. Boom ! 
And there is only the room, the table, the candle, and the 
sliding rain. Again, Boom! — Boom! — Boom! He stuffs his 
fingers into his ears. He sees corpses, and cries out in fright. 
Boom ! It is night, and they are shelling the city ! Boom ! 
Boom ! 

A child wakes and is afraid, and weeps in the darkness. 
What has made the bed shake? "jMother, where are you? 
I am awake." "Hush, my darling, I am here." "But, 
Mother, something so queer happened, the room, shook." 
Boom! ''Oh! What is it? What is the matter?" Boom! 
"Where is Father? I am so afraid." Boom! The child 
sobs and shrieks. The house trembles and creaks. Boom 1 

Retorts, globes, tubes and phials lie shattered. All his 
trials oozing across the floor. The life that was his choosing, 
lonely, urgent, goaded by a hope, all gone. A weary man in 
a ruined laboratory, that is his story. Boom ! Gloom and 
ignorance, and the jig of drunken brutes. Disease like snakes 
crawling over the earth, leaving trails of slime. Wails from 
people burying their dead. Through the window, he can see 
the rocking steeple. A ball of fire falls on the lead of the roof, 
and the sky tears apart on a spike of flame. Up the spire, 
behind the lacings of stone, zigzagging in and out of the carved 
tracings, squirms the fire. It spouts like yellow wheat from 
the gargoyles, coils round the head of Saint John, and aureoles 
him in light. It leaps into the night and hisses against the 
rain. The Cathedral is a burning stain on the white, wet 
night. 

Boom ! The Cathedral is a torch, and the houses next to it 
begin to scorch. Boom ! The bohemian glass on the etagcre 



WAR 87 

is no longer there. Boom! A stalk of flame sways against 
the red damask curtains. The old lady cannot walk. She 
watches the creeping stalk and counts. Boom ! — Boom ! — 
Boom ! 

The poet rushes into the street, and the rain wraps him in 
a sheet of silver. But it is threaded with gold and powdered 
with scarlet beads. The city burns. Quivering, spearing, 
thrusting, lapping, streaming, run the flames. Over roofs and 
walls and shops, and stalls. Smearing its gold on the sky, 
the fire dances, lances itself through the doors, and lisps and 
chuckles along the floors. 

The child wakes again and screams at the yellow petalled 
flower flickering at the window. The little red lips of flame 
creep along the ceiling beams. 

The old man sits among his broken experiments and looks 
at the burning Cathedral. Now the streets are swarming with 
people. The}' seek shelter and crowd into the cellar. They 
shout and call, and over all, slowly and without force, the 
rain drops into the city. Boom ! And the steeple crashes 
down among the people. Boom ! Boom, again ! The water 
rushes along the gutters. The fire roars and mutters. Boom ! 

— Amy Lowell 



THE OLD HOUSES OF FLANDERS 

The old houses of Flanders, 

They watch by the high cathedrals ; 



88 MODERN VERSE 

They overtop the high town-halls; 

They have eyes, mournful, tolerant, and sardonic, for the 

ways of men 
In the high, white, tiled gables. 

The rain and the night have settled down on Flanders ; 
It is all wet darkness; you can see nothing. 

Then those old eyes, mournful, tolerant, and sardonic, 
Look at great, sudden, red lights, 
Look upon the shade., of the cathedrals; 
And the golden rods of the illuminated rain, 
For a second . . . 

And those old eyes. 

Very old eyes that have watched the ways of men for many 

generations, 
Close forever. 

The high, white shoulders of the gables 
Slouch together for a consultation, 

Slant drunkenly over in the lee of the flaming cathedrals. 
They are no more, the old houses of Flanders. 

— Ford Madox Hueffer 



EHEIMS CATHEDRAL— 1914 

A winged death has smitten dumb thy bells, 
And poured them molten from thy tragic towers; 
Now are the windows dust that were thy flowers 
Patterned like frost, petaled like asphodels. 
Gone are the angels and the archangels. 



WAR 89 

The saints, the little lamb above thy door. 
The shepherd Christ ! They are not, any more, 
Save in the sonl where exiled beauty dwells. 
But who has heard within thy vaulted gloom 
That old divine insistence of the sea. 
When music tiows along the sculptured stone 
In tides of prayer, for him thy windows bloom 
Like faithful sunset, warm immortally ! 
Thy bells live on, and Heaven is in their tone ! 

— Grace Hazard Conkling 



THE OLD SOLDIER 

(14th November 1914) 

Lest the young soldiers be strange in Heaven, 

God bids the old soldier they all adored 
Come to Him and wait for them, clean, new-shriven, 

A happy door-keeper in the House of the Lord. 

Lest it abash them, the great new splendor. 
Lest they affright them, the new robes clean, 

God sets an old face there, long-tried and tender, 
A word and a hand-clasp as they troop in. 

My hoys! he welcomes them and Heaven is homely; 

He, their great Captain in days gone o'er. 
Dear is the face of a friend, honest and comely, 

As they come home from the war and he at the door. 

— Katkerine Tynan 



90 MODERN VERSE 



FUNK 



"When your marrer bone seems 'oiler, 

And you're glad you ain't no taller, 

And j'ou're all a-shakin' like you 'ad the chills; 

When your skin creeps like a pullet's, 

And you're dnckin' all the bullets. 

And 3'ou're green as gorgonzola round the gills; 

When your legs seem made of jelly, 

And you're squeamish in the belly. 

And you want to turn about and do a bunk: 

For Gawd 's sake, kid, don 't show it ! 

Don 't let your mateys know it — 

You 're just sufferin ' from funk, funk, funk. 

Of course there's no denyin' 

That it ain't so easy tryin' 

To grin and grip your rifle by the butt, 

When the 'ole world rips asunder, 

And you sees your pal go under. 

As a bunch of shrapnel sprays 'im on the nut: 

I admit it's 'ard contrivin' 

When you 'ears the shells arrivin ', 

To discover you're a bloomin' bit o' spunk; 

But my lad, you've got to do it, 

And your God will see you through it, 

For wot 'E 'ates is funk, funk, funk. 

So stand up, son; look gritty, 
And just 'um a lively ditty, 
And only be afraid to be afraid ; 
Just 'old yer rifle steady. 



WAR 91 

And 'ave yer bay 'nit ready, 

For that 's the way good soldier-men is made. 

And if you 'as to die, 

As it sometimes 'appens, why, 

Far better die a 'ero than a skunk; 

A-doin' of yer bit, 

And so — to 'ell with it, 

There ain't no bloomin' funk, funk, funk. 

— Robert W. Service 



THE DEVOUT HIGHLANDER 



Listen, laddies : Gin ye go into the battle, be devout ; 
Dinna trust to thews an' sinews or yer sin wull find»ye out; 
Dinna think yoursel' omnipotent — gie Providence His due 
An' then fight fer a' yer worth because the Lord expects ye to. 

An' ye maun pray, pray. 
Lord defend the right; 

Pray, praj', 
Before ye start to fight ; 
Dinna waver at a trifle 
(Use the butt-end o' yer rifle). 
Ask the Lord to gie ye strength wherewith to smite, 

smite, smite, 
an' pit yer back into it, laddie, gin ye smite! 



* From Songs of the Shrapnel Shell, by Captain Cyril Morton Home 
Copyright, 1916, 1918, by Harper & Brothers. 



92 MODERN VERSE 



II 

When the Germans came upon us, said me mither — ' ' Donald, 

Boy, 
Yell no look upon this fightin' as a pastime or a joy." 
Sez I — "Mither, I'm for prayin' an' for fightin' I am loath. 
But the Lord Almighty wills it that I '11 do a bit o ' both ! ' ' 

But ye maun pray, pray — etc. 

Ill 

I remember out at Wipers I obsarved a German lad 
Takkin ' pot shots at our snipers — but his aim was awf u ' bad — 
So I prayed the Lord to help me, found the range and drew 

a bead, 
An' the Lord was verra kind because the German laddie's 

de'ed. 

So ye maun pray, pray — etc. 

IV 

There was muckle lusty fightin' round the Yser River banks. 
An' the German dum-dum bullets caused confusion i' the 

ranks ; 
It was then, through force o' circumstance (as feyther used 

to say) 
I felt justified i' feeling I had rayther fight than pray! 

But ye maun pray, pray — etc. 



WAR 93 

V 

At La Bassey I was singled — while we wallowed i ' the mud — 
By a German unbeliever who was thirstin' for me blood, 
So I turned before retreatin' frae the trench, an' made a stand 
An' I pierced him thro' the stomach as the Lord had fully 
planned. 

So ye maun pray, pray — etc. 

VI 

This is no a lecture, laddies; ye can only do yer best — 
Draw a bead an' pull the trigger, an' the Lord wall do 

the rest. 
Ye maun simply tr}^ to follow out the toachin' c' the church, 
An' since the Lord is on yer side ye mauna leave Him i' the 

lurch. 

But ye maun pray, pray, 
Lord defend the right; 

Pray, pray. 
Before ye start to fight ; 
Dinna waver at a trifle 
(Use the butt-end o' yer rifle). 
Ask the Lord to gie ye strength wherewith to smite, 

smite, smite, 
an' pit yer back into it, laddie, gin ye smite! 

— Cyril Morton Home 



94 MODERN VERSE 

THE SPIRES OF OXFORD * 

(Seen from a Train) 

I saw the spires of Oxford 

As I was passing: by, 
The gray spires of Oxford 

Against a pearl-gray sky; 
My heart was with the Oxford men 

Who went abroad to die. 

The years go fast in Oxford, 

The golden years and gay; 
The hoary colleges look down 

On careless boys at play, 
But when the bugles sounded — ^War! 

They put their games away. 

They left the peaceful river, 

The cricket field, the quad, 
The shaven lawns of Oxford 

To seek a bloody sod. 
They gave their merry youth away 

For country and for God. 

God rest you, happy gentlemen. 
Who laid your good lives down, 

Who took the khaki and the gun 
Instead of cap and gown. 

God bring you to a fairer place 
Than even Oxford town. 

—W. M. Letts 

* Taken by permission from The Spires of Oxford, by Winifred M. 
Letts, copyrighted by E. P. Button & Co., New York. 



WAR 95 



THE SOLDIER 



^ 



If I should die, think only this of me : 

That there's some corner of a foreign field 
That is forever England. There shall be 

In that rich earth a richer dust concealed ; 
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, 

Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam, 
A body of England's, breathing English air, 

"Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home. 

And think, this heart, all evil shed away, 
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less 
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given ; 
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day; 
And laughter, learnt of friends ; and gentleness, 
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven. 

— Rupert Brooke 



I HAVE A RENDEZVOUS WITH DEATH 

I have a rendezvous with Death 
At some disputed barricade, 
When Spring comes back with rustling shade 
And apple-blossoms fill the air — 
I have a rendezvous with Death 
When Spring brings back blue days and fair. 

It may be he shall take my hand 
And lead me into his dark land 



96 MODERN VERSE 

And close my eyes and quench my breath — 

It may be I shall pass him still. 

I have a rendezvous with Death 

On some scarred slope of battered hill. 

When Spring comes round again this year 

And the first meadow-flowers appear. 

God knows 'twere better to be deep 
Pillowed in silk and scented down, 
Where Love throbs out in blissful sleep, 
Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath, 
Where hushed awakenings are dear . . . 
But I have a rendezvous with Death 
At midnight in some flaming town, 
When Spring trips north again this year, 
And I to my pledged word am true, 
I shall not fail that rendezvous. 

— Alan Seeger 



IN FLANDERS FIELDS * 

In Flanders fields the poppies blow 

Between the crosses, row on row. 
That mark our place ; and in the sky 
The larks, still bravely singing, fly 

Scarce heard amid the guns below. 

We are the Dead. Short days ago 
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, 

* From In Flanders Fields, by Jolm ^.Ic Crae. Courtesy of G. P. 
Putnam's Sons, Publishers, New York and London. 



M- 



WAR 9< 

Loved and were loved, and now we lie 
In Flanders fields. 
Take up our quarrel with the foe : 
To you from failing hands we throw 
The torch ; be yours to hold it high. 
If ye break faith with us who die 
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow 
In Flanders fields. 

— John McCrae 



THE DEAD TO THE LIVING 

you that still have rain and sun. 
Kisses of children and of wife. 
And the good earth to tread upon. 
And the mere sweetness that is life, 
Forget not us, who gave all these 
For something dearer, and for you. 
Think in what cause we crossed the seas ! 
Remember, he who fails the Challenge 
Fails us, too. 

Now in the hour that shows the strong — 
The soul no evil powers affray — 
Drive straight against embattled wrong! 
Faith knows but one, the hardest, way. 
Endure; the end is worth the throe, 
Give, give, and dare; and again dare! 
On, to that Wrong's great overthrow. 
We are with you, of you ; we the pain 
And victory share. 

— Laurence Binyon 



98 MODERN VERSE 



COUNTER-ATTACK * 

We'd gained our first objective hours before 
While dawn broke like a face with blinking eyes, 
Pallid, unshaven and thirsty, blind with smoke. 
Things seemed all right at first. We held their line, 
With bombers posted, Lewis guns well placed. 
And clink of shovels deepening the shallow trench. 

The place was rotten with dead ; green clumsy legs 
High-booted, sprawled and grovelled along the saps; 
And trunks, face downward, in the sucking mud, 
Wallowed like trodden sand-bags loosely filled; 
And naked sodden buttocks, mats of hair. 
Bulged, clotted heads slept in the plastering slime. 
And then the rain began, — the jolly old rain! 

A yawning soldier knelt against the bank. 
Staring across the morning blear with fog ; 
He wondered when the Allemands would get busy; 
And then, of course, they started with five-nines 
Traversing, sure as fate, and never a dud. 
Mute in the clamor of shells he watched them burst 
Spouting dark earth and wire gusts from hell. 
While posturing giants dissolved in drifts of smoke. 
He crouched and flinched, dizzy with galloping fear, 
Sick for escape, — loathing the strangled horror 
And butchered, frantic gestures of the dead. 



* Taken by permission from Counter-Atiack, by Siegfried Sassoon, 
copyrighted by E. P. Button & Co., New York. 



WAR 99 

An officer came blundering down the trench: 

' ' Stand-to and man the fire-step ! " On he went . . . 

Gasping and bawling. "Fire-step . . . counter-attack!" 

Then the haze lifted. Bombing on the right 

Down the old sap : machine-guns on the left ; 

And stumbling figures looming out in front. 

* ' O Christ, they 're coming at us ! " Bullets spat, 

And he remembered his rifle . . . rapid fire . . . 
And started blazing wildly . . . then a bang 
Crumpled and spun him sideways, knocked him out 
To grunt and wriggle: none heeded him; he choked 
And fought the flapping veils of smothering gloom. 
Lost in a blurred confusion of yells and groans . . . 
Down, and down, and down, he sank and drowned, 
Bleeding to death. The counter-attack had failed. 

— Siegfried Sassoon 



NOON * 

(l FROM "battle") 

It is midday: the deep trench glares . . , 
A buzz and blaze of flies. . . . 
The hot wind puffs the giddy airs. . . . 
The great sun rakes the skies. 

No sound in all the stagnant trench 
Where forty standing men 

*Reprinied with permission from Ardours and Endurances, by Robert 
Nichols. Copyright, 1917, Frederick A. Stokes Company. 



100 MODERN VERSE 

Endure the sweat and grit and stench. 
Like cattle in a pen. 

Sometimes a sniper's bullet whirs 
Or twangs the whining wire ; 
Sometimes a soldier sighs and stirs 
As in hell's frying fire. 

From out a high cool cloud descends 
An aeroplane's far moan. . . . 
The sun strikes down, the thin cloud rends . . . 
\ The black speck travels on. 

And sweating, dizzied, isolate 

In the hot trench beneath. 

We bide the next shrewd move of fate 

Be it of life or death. 

— Robert Nichols 



TO LUCASTA ON GOING TO THE WAEr-FOR 
THE FOURTH TIME 

It doesn't matter what's the cause 

What wrong they say we're righting, 
A curse for treaties, bonds and laws, 

When we're to do the fighting! 
And since we lads are proud and true. 

What else remains to do ? 
Lucasta, when to France your man 
Returns his fourth time, hating war, 
Yet laughs as calmly as he can 

And flings an oath, but says no more. 



WAR 101 

That is not courage, that 's not fear — 
Lucasta, he's a Fusilier, 

And his pride keeps him here. 

Let statesmen bluster, bark and bray. 

And so decide who started 
This bloody war, and who's to pay, 

But he must be stout-hearted, 
Make sit and stake with quiet breath, 

Playing at cards with Death. 
Don't plume yourself he fights for you; 
It is no courage, love or hate, 
But let us do the things we do ; 

It's pride that makes the heart be great; 
It is not anger, no, nor fear — 
Lucasta, he's a Fusilier, 

And his pride keeps him here. 

— Robert Graves 



RETREAT * 

Broken, bewildered by the long retreat 
Across the stifling leagues of Southern plain, 
Across the scorching leagues of trampled grain. 
Half-stunned, half-blinded by the trudge of feet 
And dusty smother of the August heat. 
He dreamt of flowers in an English lane. 
Of hedgerow flowers glistening after rain — 
All-heal and willowherb and meadowsweet. 

* From Collected Poems, by Wilfrid Wilson Gibson. Used by special 
permission of The Macmillan Company, publishers. 



102 MODERN VERSE 

All-heal and willowherb and meadowsweet — 
The innocent names kept up a cool refrain, 
All-heal and willowherb and meadowsweet, 
Chiming and tinkling through his aching brain 
Until he babbled as a child again — 
"All-heal and willowherb and meadowsweet." 

— Wilfrid W. Gibson 



NIGHT IN MESOPOTAMIA 

A quiver in the hot and breathless air 

Like the faint frou-frou of a woman's dress. 

The restless sleepers turn, their bodies bare 

To this babe spirit of the wilderness 

Whose frail, yet welcome hands damp brows caress — 

Bringer of blessed sleep dispelling care — 

Until the pipings of dawn express 

Another day of blistering heat and glare. 

There, out beneath the open starlit dome 

Come dreams that bloom and fade like fragile flowers, 

To some, the simple cries of hearth and home, 

To others, memories of gilded hours; 

Mayhap the fragrance of some Beauty's bowers. 

Far out of reach to wandering souls who roam. 

— A. J. E. Dawson 



WAR 103 



DOES IT MATTER?* 

Does it matter? — losing your leg? . . . 
For people will always be kind, 
And you need not show that you mind 
When the others come in after hunting 
To gobble their muffins and eggs. 

Does it matter? — losing your sight? . . . 
There's such splendid work for the blind; 
And people will always be kind, 
As you sit on the terrace remembering 
And turning your face to the light. 

Do they matter? — those dreams from the pit? . . . 

You can drink and forget and be glad, 

And people won 't say that you 're mad ; 

For they'll know that you've fought for your country, 

And no one will worry a bit. 

— Siegfried Sassoon 



THE DAWN PATROL 

Sometimes I fly at dawn above the sea. 
Where, underneath, the restless waters flow — 

Silver, and cold, and slow. 
Dim in the East there burns a new-bom sun 
Whose rosy gleams along the ripples run, 

Save where the mist droops low, 
Hiding the level loneliness from me. 

* Taken by permission from Coiinter-Attack, by Siegfried Sasaoon, 
copyrighted by E. P. Dutton & Co., New York. 



104 MODERN VEKSE 

And now appears beneath the milk-white haze 
A little tieet of anchored ships, which lie 

In clustered company. 
And seem as they are yet fast bound by sleep 
Although the day has long begun to peep, 

With red-inflamed eye, 
Along the still, deserted ocean ways. 

The fresh, cold wind of dawn blows on my face 
As in the sun's raw heart I swiftly fly, 

And watch the seas glide by. 
Scarce human seem I, moving through the skies. 
And far removed from warlike enterprise — 

Like some great gull on high 
Whose white and gleaming wings beat on through space. 

Then do I feel with God quite, quite alone 
High in the virgin morn, so white and still 

And free from human ill : 
My prayers transcend my feeble earth-bound plaints—' 
As though I sang among the happy Saints 

With many a holy thrill — 
As though the glowing sun were God's bright Throne. 

My flight is done. I cross the line of foam 
That breaks around a town of gray and red, 

Whose streets and squares lie dead 
Beneath the silent dawn — then am I proud 
That England's peace to guard I am allowed; — 

Then bow my humble head 
In thanks to Him Who brings me safely home. 

—Paul Bewsher, R. N. A. S., D. S. C. 
Luxeuil-les-Bains, 1917 



WAR 105 



AN OPEN BOAT * 

what is that whimpering there in the darkness? 
''Let him lie in my arms. He is breathing , I know. 
Look. I'll wrap all my hair round his neck." — 

"The sea's risinct. 
The boat must be lightened. He's dead. He must go." 

See — quick — by that flash, where the bitter foam tosses, 
The cloud of white faces, in the black open boat. 

And the wild pleading woman that clasps her dead lover 
And wraps her loose hair round his breast and his throat. 

''Come, lady, he's dead." "No, 1 feel his heart beating. 

He's living I know. But he's numbed with the cold. 
See, I'm wrapping my hair all around him to warm him." — 

"No. We can't keep the dead, dear. Come, loosen your 
hold. 

"Come. Loosen your fingers." — "0 God, let me keep him!" 
0, hide it, black night ! Let the winds have their way ! 

For there are no voices or ghosts from that darkness, 
To fret the bare seas at the breaking of day. 

— Alfred Noyes 

ADMIRAL DUGOUT * 

He had done with fleets and squadrons, with the restless, 
roaming seas, 
He had found the quiet haven he desired, 

* Reprinted with permission from The New Morning, by Alfred Noyes. 
Copyright, 1919, Frederick A. Stokes Company. 

* From Small Craft, by C. Fox Smith, copyright 1919, George H. 
Doran Company, publishers. 



106 MODERN VERSE 

And he lay there to his moorings with the dignity and ease 

Most becoming to Rear- Admirals (retired). 
He was reared 'mid "spit and polish," he was bred to 
''stick and string" — 

All the things the ultra-moderns never name; 
But a wind blew up to seaward, and it meant the Real Thing, 

And he had to slip his cable when it came. 

So he hied him up to London, for to hang about Whitehall, 

And he sat upon the steps there soon and late ; 
He importuned night and morning, he bombarded great and 
small. 

From messengers to Ministers of State. 
He was like a guilty conscience, he was like a ghost unlaid, 

He was like a debt of which you can 't get rid, 
Till the Powers that Be, despairing, in a fit of temper said, 

"For the Lord's sake give him something" — and they did! 

They commissioned him a trawler with a high and raking 
bow. 

Black and workmanlike as any pirate craft, 
With a crew of steady seamen very handy in a row. 

And a brace of little barkers fore and aft. 
And he blessed the Lord his IMaker when he faced the North 
Sea sprays. 

And exceedingly extolled his lucky star, 
That had given his youth renewal in the evening of his days, 

(With the rank of Captain Dugout, R.N.R.) 

He is jolly as a sandboy, he is happier than a king, 

And his trawler is the darling of his heart, 
(With her cuddy like a cupboard where a kitten couldn't 
swing, 



WAR 107 

And a scent of fish that simply won't depart). 
He has found upon occasion sundry targets for his guns, 

He could tell you tales of mine and submarhie; 
Oh, the holes he's in and out of, and the glorious risks he runs 

Turn his son (who's in a Super-Dreadnought) green. 

He is fit as any fiddle, he is hearty, hale and tanned. 

He is proof against the coldest gales that blow. 
He has never felt so lively since he got his first command, 

(Which is rather more than forty years ago). 
And of all the joyful picnics of his wild and wandering 
youth, 
Little dust-ups 'tween Taku and Zanzibar, 
There was none to match the picnic, he declares in sober sooth. 
That he has as Captain Dugout, R.N.E. 

— C. Fox Smith 



''THE AVENUE OF THE ALLIES" * 

This is the song of the wind as it came 

Tossing the flags of the nations to flame: 

I am the breath of God. I am His laughter. 
I am nis Liberty. That is mj/ name. 

So it descended, at night, on the city. 

So it went lavishing beauty and pity. 

Lighting the lordliest street of the world 

With half of the banners that earth has unfurled; 

Over the lamps that are brighter than stars. 

Laughing aloud on its way to the wars, 

Proud as America, sweeping along 

Death and destruction like notes in a song. 



108 MODERN VERSE 

Leaping to battle as man to his mate. 
Joyous as God wlien he moved to create, — 

Never was voice of a nation so glorious, 
Glad of its cause and afire with its fate ! 
Never did eagle on mightier pinion 
Tower to the height of a brighter dominion. 
Kindling the hope of the prophets to flame. 
Calling aloud on the deep as it came, 

Cleave me a way for an army with banners. 
I am His Liberty. That is my name. 

Know you the meaning of all they are doing? 
Know you the light that their soul is pursuing? 
Know you the might of the world they are making. 
This nation of nations whose heart is awaking? 
What is this mingling of peoples and races? 
Look at the wonder and joy in their faces ! 
Look how the folds of the union are spreading! 
Look, for the nations are come to their wedding. 
How shall the folk of our tongue be afraid of it? 
England was born of it. England was made of it. 
Made of this welding of tribes into one, 
This marriage of pilgrims that followed the sun ! 
Briton and Roman and Saxon were drawn 
By winds of this Pentecost, out of the dawn. 
Westward, to make her one people of many; 
But here is a union more mighty than any. 
Know you the soul of this deep exultation? 
Know you the word that goes forth to this nation? 

I am the breath of God. I am His Liberty. 
Let there be light over all His creation. 

* Reprinted with permission from The .A'eic Morning, by Alfred Noyes. 
Copyright, 1919, Frederick A. Stokes Company. 



WAR 109 

Over this Continent, wholly united, 
They that were foeman in Europe are plighted. 
Here, in a league that our blindness and pride 
Doubted and flouted and mocked and denied, 
Dawns the Republic, the laughing, gigantic 
Europe, united, beyond the Atlantic, 
That is America, spealcing one tongue, 
Acting her epics before they are sung, 
Driving her rails from the palms to the snow. 
Through States that are greater than Emperors know. 
Forty-eight States that are empires in might, 
But ruled by the will of one people to-night, 
Nerved as one body, with net-works of steel, 
Merging their strength in the one Commonweal, 
Brooking no poverty, mocking at Mars, 
Building their cities to talk w4th the stars. 
Thriving, increasing by myriads again 
Till even in numbers old Europe may wane. 
How shall a son of the England they fought 
Fail to declare the full pride of his thought. 
Stand with the scoffers who, year after year, 
Bring the Republic their half-hidden sneer? 
Now, as in beauty she stands at our side. 
Who shall withhold the full gift of his pride? 
Not tlie great England who knows that her son, 
Washington, fought her, and Liberty won. 
England, whose names like the stars in their station, 
Stand at the foot of that world's Declaration, — 
Washington, Livingston, Langdon, she claims them, 
It is her right to be proud when she names them. 
Proud of that voice in the night as it came. 
Tossing the flags of the nations to flame: 



110 MODERN VERSE 

I am the hreath of God. I am His laughter. 
I am His Liberty. That is my name. 

Flags, in themselves, are but rags that are dyed. 
Flags, in that wind, are like nations enskied. 
See, how they grapple the night as it rolls 
And trample it under like triumphing souls. 
Over the city that never knew sleep, 
Look at the riotous folds as they leap. 
Thousands of tri-colors, laughing for France, 
Ripple and whisper and thunder and dance; 
Thousands of flags for Great Britain aflame 
Answer their sisters in Liberty's name. 
Belgium is burning in pride overhead. 
Poland is near, and her sunrise is red. 
Under and over, and fluttering between, 
Italy burgeons in red, white and green. 
See, how they climb like adventurous flowers, 
Over the tops of the terrible towers. . . . 
There, in the darkness, the glories are mated. 
There, in the darkness, a world is created. 
There, in this Pentecost, streaming on high. 
There, with a glory of stars in the sky. 
There the broad flag of onr union and liberty 
Rides the proud night-wind and tyrannies die, 

— Alfred Noyes 



PRAYER OF A SOLDIER IN FRANCE * 

My shoulders ache beneath mj^ pack 
(Lie easier, Cross, upon His back). 

* From Joyce Kilmer; Poems, Essays, and Letters. Copyright, 1918, 
George H. Doran Company, publishers. 



WAR 111 

I march with feet that burn and smart 
(Tread, Holy Feet, upon my heart). 

Men shout at me who may not speak 

(They scourged Thy back and smote Thy cheek). 

I may not lift a hand to clear 

My eyes of salty drops that sear. 

(Then shall my fickle soul forget 
Thy Agony of Bloody Sweat?) 

My rifle hand is stiff and numb 

(From Thy pierced palm red rivers come). 

Lord, Thou didst suffer more for me 
Than all the hosts of land and sea. 

So let me render back again 

This millionth of Thy gift. Amen. 

— Joyce Kilmer 



THE SMALL TOWN CELEBRATES 

We tumbled out into the starry dark 
Under the cold stars ; still the sirens shrieked, 
As we reached the square, two rockets hissed 
And flowered: they were the only two in town. 
Down streamed the people, blowing frosty breath 
Under the lamps — the mayor and the marshal, 
The fire department, members of the band. 



112 MODERN VERSE 

Buttoning their clothes with one hand, while the other 

Clutched a cold clarionet or piccolo 

That shivered for its first ecstatic squeal. 

We had no cannon — we made anvils serve. 

Just as our fathers did when Sumter fell ; 

And all a little town could do, to show 

That twenty haughty cities heaped together 

Could not be half so proud and glad as we, 

We did. Soon a procession formed itself — 

Prosperous and poor, young, old, and staid and gay, 

Every glad soul who'd had the hardihood 

To .iump from a warm bed at four o'clock 

Into the starry blackness. Round the square — 

A most unmilitary sight — it pranced, 

Straggled and shouted, while the street-lamps blinked 

In sleepy wonder. 

At the very end 
Where the procession dwindled to a tail, 
Shuffled Old Boozer. From a snorting car 
But just arrived, a leading citizen 
Sprang to the pavement. 

"Hallelujah, Boss! 
' ' We 's whop de Kaiser ! ' ' 

"Well, you old black fraud/' 
(The judge's smile was hiding in his beard) 
"What's he to you?" 

Old Boozer bobbed and blinked 
Under the lamps; another moment, he 
Had scrambled to the base about the post, 
And through the nearer crowd the shout went round, 
"Listen — Old Boozer's going to preach !" 

He raised 
His tranced eyes. A moment's pause. 

"0 Lawd, 



WAR 113 

You heah dis g:emman ax me dat jes' now, 

'What's he to Boozer'? Doan he know, Lawd, 

Dat Kaiser's boot-heel jes' been tinglin' up 

To stomp on Boozer? Doan he know de po', 

De feeble, an' de littlesome toddlin' chile 

Dat scream to Ilebben when he tromp 'em down, 

Hab drug dat Bad Man right down off his throne 

To ebberlastin' torment? Glory, Lawd! 

We done pass through de Red Sea! Glory, Lawd! 

De Lawd done drug de mighty from his seat ! 

He done exalted dem ob low degree ! 

He «abe de spark from dem dat stomp it out ! 

He sabe de seed from dem dat tromp it down ! 

He sabe de lebben strugglin' in de lump! 

He sabe de — " 

Cheering, laughing, moving on, 
With cries of "Go it. Boozer ! ' ' the crowd swirled 
About his perch ; but, as I passed, I saw 
A red-haired boy, who stood, and did not move, 
But gazed and gazed, as if the old man's words 
Raised visions. In his shivering arms he held 
A struggling puppy ; once I heard him say, 
"Down, Woodrow!" but he scarcely seemed to know 
He spoke. The stars paled slowly overhead ; 
The din increased ; the crowd surged ; but the boy 
Stood rapt. As I turned back once more, I saw 
Full morning on his face. And at the end 
Of our one down-town street, the laughing sun 
Came shouting up, belated, but most glad. 

— Karle Wilson Baker 



U4 MODERN VERSE 



CONTINUITY 

No sign is made while empires pass, 
The flowers and stars are still His care, 
The constellations hid in grass, 
The golden miracles in air. 

Life in an instant will be rent. 

Where death is glittering blind and wild — 

The Heavenly Brooding is intent 

To that last instant on Its child. 

It breathes the glow in brain and heart. 
Life is made magical. Until 
Body and spirit are apart 
The Everlasting works Its will. 

In that wild orchid that your feet 
In their next falling shall destroy, 
Minute and passionate and sweet 
The Mighty Master holds His joy. 

Though the crushed jewels droop and fade, 
The Artist's labors will not cease, 
And of the ruins shall be made 
Some yet more lovely masterpiece. 

—A. E. 



CHILDREN AND HOME 



BABY PANTOMIME * 

Serene, he sits on other shores 

Than ours : with wide, unconscious lands 
He holds strange speech, or, silent, pores 

On denizens of viewless strands; 
On tablets of the air weird scores 

He writes, and makes, with eager hands 
As strange erasements; then, two-fisted, stores 

An elfin hour-glass with heavenly sands. 

— Fercij MacKaye 



A MAN-CHILD'S LULLABY 

Little groping hands that must learn the weight of labor, 

Little eyes of wonder that must learn to weep ; 
Mother is thy life now: that shall be to-morrow — 
Time enough for trouble — ^time enough for sorrow — 
Now . . . sleep. 

Little dumb lips that shall wake and make a w^oman, 

Little blind heart that shall know the worst and best ; 
Mother is thy love now: that shall be hereafter — 
Time enough for joy, and time enough for laughter — 
Now . . . rest. 

Little rosy body, new-born of pain and beauty, 
Little lonely soul new-risen from the deep ; 

* From The Sistine Eve, by Percy MacKaye. Used by special per- 
mission of The Macmillan Company, publishers. 

117 



118 MODERN VERSE 

IMother is thy world now, whole and satisfying — 
Time enough for living — time enough for dying — 
Now . . . sleep. 

— Brian Hooker 



JUSTICE * 

Michael, come in! Stop crying at the door. 

Come in and see the evil you have done. 

Here is your sister's doll with one leg gone. 
Naked and helpless on the playroom floor. 
' ' Poor child ! poor child ! now he can. never stand. 

With one leg less he could not even sit!" 
She mourned, but tirst, with swift avenging hand. 

She smote, and I am proud of her for it. 

Michael, my sympathies are all for you. 

Your cherub mouth, your miserable eyes. 

Your gray -blue smock tear-spattered and your cries 
Shatter my heart, but what am I to do? 
He was her baby and the fear of bears 

Lay heavy on him so he could not sleep 
But in the crook of her dear arm, she swears. 

So, Michael, she was right and you must weep. 

— Aline Kilmer 



* From Candles That Burn, by Aline Kilmer. Copyright, 1919, George 
H. Doran Company, publishers. 



CHILDREN AND HOME 119 



SMELLS— (JUNIOR) * 

My Daddy smells like tobacco and books 

Mother, like lavender and listerine; 
Uncle John carries a whiff of cig'ars, 

Nannie smells starchy and soapy and clean. 

Shandy, my dog, has a smell of his own 

(When he's been out in the rain he smells most) ; 
But Katie, the cook, is more splendid than all — 

She smells exactly like hot buttered toast ! 

— Christopher Morley 



THE RAG DOLLY'S VALENTINE* 

Though others think I stare with eyes unseeing, 

I've loved you. Mistress mine, so dear to me. 
With all my fervent rag-and-sawdust being 

Since first you took me from the Christmas Tree, 
I love you though my only frock you tear off; 

I love you though you smear my face at meals ; 
I love you though you've washed my painted hair off; 

I love you when you drag me by the heels; 
I love you though you've sewed three buttons on me. 

But most I love you when you sit upon me. 

* From The Rocking Horse, by Christopher Morley. Copyright, 1919, 
George H. Doran Company, publishers. 

* From The Laughing Muse, by Arthur Guiterman. Copyright, 191.5, 
by Harper & Brothers. 



120 MODERN VERSE 

No jealous pang shall mar my pure affection ; 

For, while 'tis true your heart I'm forced to share 
With that Wax Doll of pink-and- white complexion, 

The Pussy Cat, the Lamb and Teddy Bear, 
'Tis mine alone, whate'er the time or place is, 

To know your every g;rief and each delight ; 
I feel your childish wrath and warm embraces, 

I share your little pillow every night. 
And so, without another whj^ or whether, 
I'll love you while my stitches hold together! 

— Arthur Guiterman 



THE ANXIOUS FARMER * 

It was awful long ago 

That I put those seeds around ; 
And I guess I ought to know 

When I stuck 'em in the ground, 
'Cause I noted down the day 

In a little diary book — 
It's gotten losted somewhere, and 

I don't know where to look. 

But I'm certain anyhow 

They've been planted most a week; 
And it must be time by now 

For their little sprouts to peek. 
They've been watered every day 

With a very speshul care. 
And once or twice I 've dug 'em up to 

see if they was there. 

* From YouiH/sters, published by E. P. Duttoii & Company ; by per- 
mission of the author. 



CHILDREN AND HOME 121 



I fixed the dirt in humps 

Just the way they said I should ; 
And I crumbled all the lumps 

Just as finely as I could. 
And I fovmd a nangle-worm 

A-pokino; up his head, — 
He maybe feeds on seeds and such, 

and so I squushed him dead, 

A seed's so very small, 

And dirt all looks the same ; — 
How can they know at all 

The way they ought to aim? 
And so I'm waiting round 

In case of any need ; 
A farmer ought to do his best for 

ever}' single seed ! 

— B urges Johnson 



THE DEW-LIGHT * 

The Dew-i\lan comes over the mountains wide. 

Over the deserts of sand, 

With his bag of clear drops 

And his brush of feathers. 

He scatters brightness. 

The white bunnies beg him for dew. 



* Reprinted with permission from Poems hi/ a Little Girl, by Hilda 
C'onkIin<,^ Copyriglit, 1020, Frederick A. Stokes Company. 



122 MODERN VERSE 

He sprinkles their fur . . . 
They shake themselves. 
All the time he is singing, 

The iinlxnoum world is 'beautiful! 

He polishes flowers, 

Humming, "Oh, beautiful!" 

He sings in the soft light 

That grows out of the dew; 

Out of the misty dew-light that leans over him 

He makes his song. 

It is beautiful, the unknown world! 

— Hilda Conkling 
(8 years old) 



THE SHADOW PEOPLE 

Old lame Bridget doesn't hear 
Fairy music in the grass 
When the gloaming's on the mere 
And the shadow people pass : 
Never hears their slow gray feet 
Coming from the village street 
Just be3'ond the parson's wall, 
Where the clover globes are sweet 
And the mushroom's parasol 
Opens in the moonlit rain. 
Every night I hear them call 
From their long and merry train. 
Old lame Bridget says to me, 
*'It is just your fancy, child." 



CHILDREN AND HOME 123 

She cannot believe I see 
Laiighinoj faces in the wild, 
Hands that twinkle in the sedge 
Bowing at the water's edge 
Where the finny minnows quiver, 
Shaping on a blue wave's ledge 
Bubble foam to sail the river. 
And the sunny hands to me 
Beckon ever, beckon ever. 
Oh ! I would be wild and free 
And with the shadow people be. 

— Francis Ledwidge 



INCORRIGIBLE * 

I guess I 'm bad as I can be 

'Cause after uncle found and yanked me 
Out of that old apple-tree, 

And after dad came home and spanked me, 
And while my teacher told me things 

About the narrow path of duty, 
And how an education brings 

The only truly joy and beauty, 
And while she said she didn't doubt 

They'd wasted all the good they'd taught me, 
I had to grin, to think about 

The fun I had before they caught me. 

— B urges Johnson 

* From Youngsters, published by E. P. Button & Company ; by per- 
mission of the author. 



124 MODERN VERSE 



DA YOUNGA 'MERICAN 

I, jNIj^sal', I feela strange 

Een dees countra. I can no 
Mak' mysal' agen an' change 

Eento 'Merican, an' so 
I am w'at you calla me, 

Justa "dumb ole Dago man." 
Alia same my boy ees be 

Smarta younga 'Merican. 
Twalv' year ole ! but alia same 

He ees learna soocha lot 
He can read an' write liees name — 

Smarta keed ? I tal you w'at 1 

He no talk Italian ; 

He says: "Dat's for Dagoes speak, 
I am younga 'Mericanj 

Dago langwadge mak' me seeck." 
Eef you gona tal lieem, too, 

He ees "leetla Dago," my! 

He ees gat so mad weetli you 

He gon' ponch you een da eye. 
Mebbe so you gona mak' 

Fool weetli lieem — an' mebbe not. 
Queeck as flash he sass you back ; 

Smarta keed ? I tal you w 'at ! 

He ees moocha' 'shame' for be 

Meexa weeth Italian ; 
He ees moocha 'shame' of me — 

I am dumb ole Dago man. 



CHILDREN AND HOME 125 

Evra time w'en I go out 

Weetha lieem I no can speak 
To som'body. "Shut your mout','' 

He M^eell tal me pretta queeek, 
"You weell geeve yoursal' awry 

Talkin' Dago lika dat ; 
Try be 'Meriean," he say — 

Smarta keed? I tal you w'at! 

I am w'at you calla me, 

Justa "dumb ole Dago man:" 
Alia same my boy ees be 

Smarta younga 'Meriean. 

—T. A. Daly 



LITTLE PAN * 

Out on the hill — by an autumn-tree 

As red as his cheek in the weather — - 
He waved a sumac-torch of glee 

And preened, like a scarlet feather, 
A branch of maple bright on his breast 

And shook an oak in his cap ; 
And the dance of his heels on the reeky crest 

Was a woodpecker's tap-tap-tap. 

The eyes of a squirrel were quick in his head 

And the grace of a deer in his shoulder, 
And never a cardinal beckoned so red 

* Reprinted with permission from Grensione Poems, by Witter Bynner. 
Copyright, 1917, Frederick A. Stokes Company. 



126 MODERN VERSE 

As his torch when he leapt on a boulder; 
A robin exclaiming he mocked in a voice 

Which hurried the heavens around him. 
What could we do but attend and rejoice, 

Celia and I who had found him ! 

He spied us at last, though we hid by a pine ; 

And before he miglit vanisli in smoke 
I tried to induce him to give us a sign, 

But he stopped in his dance when I spoke — 
"O tell me your name and the hill you inhabit !" 

He curled round his tree like a cat; 
''They call me," he cried, as he fled like a rabbit, 

' ' Donovan 's damned little brat ! " 

— Witter Bynner 



RUFUS PRAYS 

In the darkening church, 
Where but a few had stayed. 
At the Litany Desk 
The idiot knelt and prayed. 

Rufus, stunted, uncouth, 
The one son of his mother : 
"Eh, I'd sooner 'ave Kufie," 
She said, "than many another. 

" 'E 's so useful about the 'ouse 
And so gentle as 'e can be 
And 'e gets up early o' mornin's 
To make me a cup o' tea." 



CHILDREN AND HOME 127 

The formal evensong 

Had passed over his head : 

He sucked his thumb, and squinted, 

And dreamed, instead. 

Now while the organ boomed 
To few who still were there. 
At the Litany Desk 
The idiot made his prayer ; 

"Gawd bless Muther, 
'N ' make Rufie a good lad. 
Take Rufie to Heaven, 
'N' forgive him when he's bad. 

*' 'N' early mornin's in Heaven 
'E '11 make Muther 's tea, 
'N' a cup for the Lord Jesus 
'N' a cup for Thee." 

— L. A. G. Strong 



AN OLD WOMAN OF THE ROADS 

0, to have a little house ! 
To own the hearth and stool and all ! 
The heaped up sods upon the fire, 
The pile of turf against the wall ! 

To have a clock with weights and chains 
And pendulum swinging up and down! 



128 MODERN VERSE 

A dresser filled with shining delph, 
Speckled and white and blue and brown ! 

I could be busy all the day 

Clearing and sweeping hearth and floor, 

And fixing on their shelf again 

My white and blue and speckled store ! 

I could be quiet there at night 
Beside the fire and by myself, 
Sure of a bed and loth to leave 
The ticking clock and the shining delph., 

Och ! but I 'm weary of mist and dark, 

And roads where there 's never a house nor bush, 

And tired I am of bog and road, 

And the crying wind and the lonesome hush! 

And I am praying to God on high, 
And I am praying Him night and day. 
For a little house — a house of my own — 
Out of the wind's and the rain's way. 

— Padraic Colum 



THE ANCIENT BEAUTIFUL THINGS 

I am all alone in the room. 
The evening stretches before me 
Like a road all delicate gloom 
Till it reaches the midnight's gate. 
And I hear his step on the path. 



CHILDREN AND HOME 129 

And his questioning whistle, low 
At the door as I hurry to meet him. 

He will ask, "Are the doors all locked? 
Is the fire made safe on the hearth ? 
And she — is she sound asleep?" 

I shall say "Yes, the doors are locked, 

And the ashes are white as the frost: 

Only a few red eyes 

To stare at the empty room. 

And she is all sound asleep, 

Up there where the silence sings. 

And the curtains stir in the cold." 

He will ask, "And what did you do 
While I have been gone so long? 
So long! Four hours or five!" 

I shall say, "There was nothing I did. — 

I mended that sleeve of your coat. 

And I made her a little white hood 

Of the furry pieces I found 

Up in the garret to-day. 

She shall wear it to play in the snow. 

Like a little white bear,— and shall laugh, 

And tumble, and crystals of stars 

Shall shine on her cheeks and hair. 

— It was nothing I did.— I thought 

You would never come home again!" 

Then he will laugh out, low, 
Being fond of my folly, perhaps; 
And softly and hand in hand 



130 MODERN VERSE 

"We shall creep upstairs in the dusk 
To look at her, lying asleep : 
Our little gold bird in her nest : 
The wonderful bird who flew in 
At the window our life flung- wide. 
(How should we have chosen her. 
Had we seen them all in a row. 
The unborn vague little souls. 
All wings and tremulous hands? 
How should we have chosen her, 
Made like a star to shine. 
Made like a bird to fly, 
Out of a drop of our blood, 
And earth, and fire, and God?) 

Then we shall go to sleep, 
Glad.— 

God, did you know 
When you molded men out of clay, 
Urging them up and up 
Through the endless circles of change, 
Travail and turmoil and death. 
Many would curse you down, 
Many would live all gray 
"With their faces flat like a mask: 
But there would be some, God, 
Crying to you each night, 
"I am so glad! so glad! 
I am so rich and gay ! 
How shall I thank you, God?" 

"Was that one thing you knew 

When you smiled and found it was good 

The curious teeming earth 



CHILDREN AND HOME 131 

That grew like a child at your hand? 
Ah, you might smile, for that ! — 

— I am all alone in the room. 
The books and the pictures peer. 
Dumb old friends^ from the dark. 
The wind goes high on the hills, 
And my fire leaps out, being proud. 
The terrier, down on the hearth, 
Twitches and barks in his sleep. 
Soft little foolish barks, 
More like a dream than a dog . . . 
I will mend the sleeve of that coat. 
All ragged, — and make her the hood 
Furry, and white, for the snow. 
She shall tumble and laugh . . . 

Oh, I think 
Though a thousand rivers of grief 
Flood over my head — though a hill 
Of horx-Qj lie on my breast, — 
Something will sing, "Be glad! 
You have had all your heart's desire: 
The unknown things that you asked 
When you lay awake in the nights, 
Alone, and searching the dark 
For the secret wonder, of life, i 
You have had them (can you forget?) : 
The ancient beautiful things!" . . . 

How long he is gone. And yet 
It is only an hour or two . . . 



132 MODERN VERSE 

Oh, I am so happy. My eyes 
Are troubled with tears. 

Did you l^now, 
O God, they would like this, 
Your ancient beautiful things? 
Are there more? Are there more, — out there f 
God, are there always more? 

— Fannie Stearns Davis 



YOU, FOUR WALLS, WALL NOT IN MY 
HEART ! 

You, Four Walls, 

Wall not in my heart ! 
When the lovely night-time falls 

All so weleomely, 
Blinding, sweet hearth-fire, 
Light of heart's desire, 

Blind not, blind not me ! 
Unto them that weep apart, — 
While you glow, within, 

Wreckt, despairing kin, — 
- — Do not blind my heart ! 

You, close Heart ! 

Never hide from mine 
Worlds that I divine 
Through thy human dearness; 
0, beloved Nearness, 
Hallow all I understand 



CHILDREN AND HOME 133 

With thy hand-in-hand; — 
All the lights I seek 
With thy cheek-to-cheek. 

All the loveliness I loved apart. 

You, heart 's Home ! 

Wall not in my heart. 

Josephine Preston Pedbody 



MY DOG * 

I have no dog, but it must be 

Somewhere there's one belongs to me — 

A little chap with wagging tail, 

And dark brown eyes that never quail, 

But look 3^ou through, and through, and through 

With love unspeakable, but true. 

Somewhere it must be, I opine, 
There is a little dog of mine 
With cold black nose that sniffs around 
In search of what things may be found 
In pocket, or some nook hard by 
Where I have hid them from his eye. 

Somewhere my doggie pulls and tugs 
The fringes of rebellious rugs. 
Or with the mischief of the pup 
Chews all mj^ shoes and slippers up. 
And when he's done it to the core 
With eyes all eager pleads for more, 

* From Foothills of Parnassus, by John Kendrick Bangs. Used by 
special permission of The Macmillan Company, publishers. 



134 MODERN VERSE 

Somewhere upon his hinder legs 

My little doggie sits and begs, 

And in a wistful minor tone 

Pleads for the pleasures of the bone — 

I pray it be his owner's whim 

To yield, and grant the same to him. 

Somewhere a little dog doth wait. 

It may be by some garden-gate, 

With eyes alert and tail attent — 

You know the kind of tail that's meant — 

With stores of yelips of glad delight 

To bid me welcome home at night. 

Somewhere a little dog is seen. 
His nose two shaggy paws between, 
Flat on his stomach, one eye shut 
Held fast in dreamy slumber, but 
The other open, ready for 
His master coming through the door. 

— John Kendrick Bangs 



IN SERVICE 

Little Nellie Cassidy has got a place in town. 

She wears a fine white apron, 

She wears a new black gown, 
An' the quarest little cap at all with straymers hanging down. 

I met her one fine evening stravagin' down the street, 
A feathered hat upon her head. 



CHILDREN AND HOME 135 

And boots upon her feet. 
''Och, Mick," says she, "may God be praised that you and I 
should meet. 

" It 's lonesome in the city with such a crowd, ' ' says she ; 

"I'm lost without the bog-land, 

I'm lost without the sea, 
An' the harbor an' the fishing-boats that sail out fine and free. 

"I'd give a golden guinea to stand upon the shore. 

To see the big waves lepping, 

To hear them splash and roar. 
To smell the tar and the drying nets, I'd not be asking more. 

"To see the small white houses, their faces to the sea, 

The childher in the doorway, 

Or round my mother's knee; 
For I'm strange and lonesome missing them, God keep them 
all," says she. 

Little Nellie Cassidy earns fourteen pounds and more, 

Waiting on the quality. 

And answering the door — 
But her heart is some place far away upon the Wexford shore. 

—W. M. Letts 



MY SWEET BROWN GAL * 

Wen de clouds is hangin' heavy in de sky. 
An' de win's 's a4aihin' moughty vig'rous by, 
I don' go a-sighin' all erlong de way; 
I des' wo'k a-waitin' fu' de close o' day. 

* From Lyrics of Love and Laughter by Paul Laurence Dunbar 
Copyright by Dodd, Mead & Co. 



136 MODERN VERSE 

Case I knows w 'en evenin ' draps huh shadders down, 
I won ' care a smidgeon f u ' de weathah 's frown ; 
Let de rain go splashin', let de thundah raih, 
Day's a happy sheltah, an' I's goin' daih. 

Down in my ol' cabin wa'm ez mammy's toas', 
'Taters in de fiah layin' daih to roas'; 
No one daih to cross me, got no talkin' pal, 
But I's got de comp'ny o' my sweet brown gal. 

So I spen's my evenin' listenin' to huh sing, 
Lak a blessid angel ; how huh voice do ring ! 
Sweetah den a bluebird flutterin' erroun', 
W 'n he sees de steamin ' o ' de new plowed groun '. 

Den I hugs huh closah, closah to my breas'. 
Needn't smg, my da lm',tek you' nones' res'. 
Does I mean Malindy, Mandy, Lize er !Sal i 
No, I means my fiddle — dat's my sweet brown gal! 

— raid Liuurence JJunbar 



THE SUNKEN GAEDEN 

Speak not — whisper not ; 
Here bloweth thyme and bergamot; 
Softly on the evening hour. 
Secret herbs their spices shower. 
Dark-spiked rosemary and myrrh. 
Lean-stalked, purple lavender; 
Hides within her bosom, too. 
All her sorrows, bitter rue. 



CHILDREN AND HOME 137 

Breathe not — trespass not ; 
Of this green and darkling spot, 
Latticed from the moon's beams, 
Perchance a distant dreamer dreams; 
Perchance upon its darkening air. 
The unseen ghosts of children fare, 
Faintly swinging, sway and sweep, 
Like lovely sea-flowers in its deep ; 
While, unmoved, to watch and ward, 
'Mid its gloomed and daisied sward, 
Stands with bowed and dewy head 
That one little leaden Lad. 

— Walter de la Mare 



THE GARDEN BY MOONLIGHT * 

A black cat among roses, 

Phlox, lilac-misted under a first-quarter moon, 

The sweet smells of heliotrope and night-scented stock. 

The garden is very still, 

It is dazed with moonlight. 

Contented with perfume. 

Dreaming the opium dreams of its folded poppies. 

Firefly lights open and vanish 

High as the tip buds of the golden glow 

Low as the sweet alyssum flowers at my feet. 

IMoon-shimmer on leaves and trellises. 

Moon-spikes shafting through the snow-ball bush. 

* From Pictures of the Floating World, by Amy Lowell. Used by spe- 
cial permission of The Macmillan Company, publishers. 



138 MODERN VERSE 

Only the little faces of the ladies' delight are alert and staring, 

Only the eat, padding between the roses, 

Shakes a branch and breaks the chequered pattern 

As water is broken by the falling of a leaf. 

Then you come. 

And you are quiet like the garden, 

And white like the alyssum flowers, 

And beautiful as the silent sparks of the fireflies. 

Ah, Beloved, do you see those orange lilies? 

They knew my mother, 

But who belonging to me will they know 

When I am gone. 

— Amy Lowell 



FRIENDSHIP AND LOVE 



TO MY BROTHER 

I loved you for your loving ways, 
The ways that many did not know; 

Althour,'h my heart would heat and glow 
When Nations crowned you with their hays. 

[ loved you for the tender hand 
That held my own so close and warm, 

[ loved you for the winning charm 
That hrought gay sunshine to the land. 

I loved you for the heart that knew 

The need of everv little child ; 
I loved you when y(n turned and smiled, — 

It was as though a fresh wind blew. 

I loved you for your loving ways, 
That look that leaped to meet my eye, 

The ever-ready sympathy, 

The generous ardor of your praise. 

I loved you for the buoyant fun 

That made perpetual holiday 
For all who ever crossed your way, 

The highest or the humblest one. 

I loved you for the radiant zest, 
The thrill and glamor that you gave 

To each glad hour that we could save 
And garner from Time's grim behest. 
141 



142 MODERN VERSE 

I loved you for your loving ways, — 
And just because I loved them so, 

And now have lost them, — thus I know 
I must go softly all my days ! 

— Corinne Roosevelt Robinson 



A MILE WITH ME 

0, who will walk a mile with me 

Along life's merry way? 
A comrade blithe and full of glee, 
Who dares to laugh out loud and free, 
And let his frolic fancy play, 
Like a happy child, through the flowers gay 
That fill the field and fringe the way 

Where he walks a mile with me. 

And who will walk a mile with me 

Along life's weary way? 
A friend whose heart has eyes to see 
The stars shine out o'er the darkening lea. 
And the quiet rest at the end o' the day, — 
A friend who knows, and dares to say, 
The brave, sweet words that cheer the way 
When he walks a mile with me. 

With such a comrade, such a friend 
I fain wouki walk till journey's end, 
Through summer sunshine, winter rain. 
And then ? — Farewell, we shall meet again ! 

— Henry van Dyke 



FRIENDSHIP AND LOVE 143 



MY FRIEND * 

The friend I love is like the sea to me, 
With spacious days of large tranquility 
"When on my heart his wordless comforts lie, 
As on the utter sea rim rests the sky ; 
And like the sea for wrath he is, and strong 
To launch his surges on the cliffs of Wrong ; 
But most I love him for his deep-sea spell 
Of unguessed secrets that he may not tell: 
So I have seen him stand and look afar 
Bej'ond the twilight to the evening star, 
And like the ocean's haunting lure to me. 
Deep in his eyes I read a mystery : — 
For he whose soul we fathom to the end 
Becomes our servant then, and not our friend. 

— Walter Prichard Eaton 



PEOPLE 

Like to islands in the seas 
Stand our personalities: 
Islands where we always face 
One another's watering-place; 
When we promenade our sands, 
We can hear each other's bands; 
We can see on festal nights 
Red and green and purple lights, 

* From Echoes and Realities, by Walter Prichard Eaton. Copyright, 
1918, George H. Doran Company, publishers. 



144 MODERN VERSE 

Gilt pavilions in a row, 
Stucco houses built for show. 

But our eyes can never reach 
Further than the tawdry beach, 
Never can they hope to win 
To the wonders far within : 
Jagged rocks against the sky, 
Where the eagles haunt and cry, 
Forests full of running rills. 
Darkest forests, sunny hills, 
Hollows where a Monster lowers, 
Sweet and unimagined flowers. 

— Frances D. Cornford 



SONG 

"Oh! Love," they said, "is King of Kings, 

And Triumph is his crown. 
Earth fades in flame before his wings, 

And Sun and Moon bow down." — 
But that, I knew, would never do; 

And Heaven is all too high. 
So whenever I meet a Queen, I said, 

I will not catch her eye. 

"Oh! Love," they said, and "Love," they said, 

"The gift of Love is this; 
A crown of thorns about thy head, 

And vinegar to thy kiss!" 
But Tragedy is not for me; 



FRIENDSHIP AND LOVE 145 

And I'm content to be gay. 
So whenever I spied a Tragic Lady, 
I went another way. 

And so I never feared to see 

You wander down the street. 
Or come across the fields to me 

On ordinary feet. 
For what they'd never told me of. 

And what I never knew ; 
It was that all the time, my love. 

Love would be merely you. 

— Rupert Brooke 



THE LOOK * 

Strephon kissed me in the spring, 

Robin in the fall. 
But Colin only looked at me 

And never kissed at all. 

Strephon 's kiss was lost in jest, 

Robin's lost in play, 
But the kiss in Colin 's eyes 

Haunts me night and day. 

— Sara Tcasdale 



* From Love Songs, by Rara Teasdale. Used by special permission 
of The Macmillan Company, publishers. 



146 MODERN VERSE 



TO A DISTANT ONE 

Through wild by-ways I come to you, my love, 
Nor ask of those I meet the surest way ; 
What way I turn I cannot go astray 
And miss you in my life. Though Fate may prove 
A tardy guide she will not make delay 
Leading me through strange seas and distant lands, 
I'm coming still, though slowly, to your hands. 
We'll meet one day. 

There is so much to do, so little done. 
In my life's space that I perforce did leave 
Love at the moonlit trysting-place to grieve 
Till fame and other little things were won. 
I have missed much that I shall not retrieve, 
Far will I wander yet with much to do. 
Much will I spurn before I yet meet you. 
So fair I can't deceive. 

Your name is in the whisper of the woods 
Like Beauty calling for a poet's song 
To one whose harp had suffered many a wrong 
In the lean hands of Pain. And when the broods 
Of flower eyes waken all the streams along 
In tender whiles, I feel most near to you: — 
Oh, when we meet there shall be sun and blue 
Strong as the spring is strong. 

— Francis Ledwidge 



FRIENDSHIP AND LOVE 147 



''MARY, HELPER OF HEARTBREAK" 

Well, if the thing: is over, better it is for me. 

The lad was ever a rover, loving and laughing free, 

Far too clever a lover not to be having still 

A lass in the town and a lass by the road and a lass by the 

farther hill — 
Love on the field and love on the path and love in the woody 

glen— 
(Lad, will I never see you, never your face again?) 

Ay, if the thing is ending, now I'll be getting rest, 

Saying my prayers and bending down to be stilled and blest, 

Never the days are sending hope till my heart is sore 

For a laugh on the path and a voice by the gate and a step 

on the shieling floor — 
Grief on my ways and grief on my work and grief till the 

evening's dim — 
(Lord, will I never hear it, never a sound of him?) 

Sure if it's done forever, better for me that's wise, 
Never the hurt, and never tears in my aching eyes, 
No more the trouble ever to hide from my asking folk 
Beet of mj' heart at click o' the latch, and throb if his name is 

spoke; ■'■ ' -' i S;-' ; ' - 

Never the need to hide' the sighs and the flushing thoughts and 

the fret. 
And after awhile my heart will hush and my hungering hands 

forget . . . 
Peace on my ways, and peace in my step, and maybe my heart 

grown light — 
(Mary, helper of heartbreak, send him to me to-night!) 

— Margaret Widdemer 



148 MODERN VERSE 



GAKDEN OF THE ROSE * 

Her heart is like a garden fair 

Where many pleasant blcssoms grow; 

But though I sometimes enter there, 
There is one path I do not know. 

The way I go to find it lies 

Through dew}^ beds of violet; 
Those are the portals of her eyes, 

Where modesty and truth are set. 

And just behind, a hedge is placed — 
A hedge of lilies, tall and white. 

Those are her maiden thoughts, so chaste 
I almost tremble in their sight. 

But shining through them, and above — 
Plalf-hid, but trembling to unfold — 

I spy the roses of her love. 

And then again I grow more bold. 

So, half in prayer, I seek and wait 

To find the secret path that goes 
Up from the lily-guarded gate 

To her heart's garden of the rose. 

— Charles Buxton Going 



* From Star-Glow and Song, by Charles Buxton Going. Copyright, 
1909, by Harper & Brothers. 



FRIENDSHIP AND LOVE 149 



THE LITTLE GOLDEN FOUNTAIN 

Oh, my heart is a little golden fountain, 

Through it and spilling over the brim 

Wells the love of you. 

Brighter gleams the gold for the sparkling M^ater, 

And down below where the overflow drips 

Into a clear little pool of bubbles, 

Fresh spears of gras.^i spring again ;t the golden column. 

Oh, my heart is a little golden fountain 

Fashioned purely for that leaping grace, 

The luminous love of you. 

Up through the column and over the golden basin 

It thrills and fills and trembles in the sunlight, 

Showering its gladness over and bestrewing 

The golden fountainhead with rainbow rapture. 

— Mary MacMiUav 



SONGS OF A GIRL * 
XIX 

Within the little house 

Of my great love for you. 

This safe and happy house, 

I sit and sing, while all the world goes by. 

* From Youth Riding, by Mary Carolyn Davies. Used by special per- 
mission of The Macmillan Company, publishers. 



150 MODERN VERSE 



Within the house that is my love for you 
No harm can come, nor any thought of fear ; 
There is no danger that can cross the threshold. 

You did not build this house 

Nor I ; 

But God the Carpenter — 



— Mary Carolyn Davies 



PSALM TO MY BELOVED 

Lo, I have opened unto you the wide gates of my being, 

And like a tide you have flowed into me. 

The innermost recesses of my spirit are full of you, and all 
the channels of my soul are grown sweet with your pres- 
ence. 

For you have brought me peace; 

The peace of great tranquil waters, and the quiet of the sum- 
mer sea. 

Your hands are filled with peace as the noon-tide is filled 
with light ; about your head is bound the eternal quiet of 
the stars, and in your heart dwells the calm miracle of 
twilight. 

I am utterly content. 

In all my spirit is no ripple of unrest. 

For I have opened unto you the wide gates of my being 

And like a tide you have flowed into me. 

— Eunice Tietjens 



FRIENDSHIP AND LOVE 151 



THE REFLECTION* 

I have not heard her voice, nor seen her face, 

Nor touched her hand ; 
And yet some echo of her woman's grace 

I understand. 

I have no picture of her lovelihood, 

Her smile, her tint; 
But that she is both beautiful and good 

I have true hint. 

In all that my friend thinks and says, I see 

Her mirror true; 
His thought of her is gentle ; she must be 

All gentle too. 

In all his grief or laughter, work or play. 

Each mood and whim. 
How brave and tender, day by common day, 

She speaks through him! 

Therefore I say I know her, be her face 

Or dark or fair — 
For when he shows his heart 's most secret place 

I see her there ! 

— Christopher Morley 



* From The Rocking Horse, by Christopher Morley. Copyright, 1919, 
George H. Doran Company, publishers. 



152 MODERN VERSE 



A LYNMOUTH WIDOW * 

He was straight and strong, and his eyes were blue 
As the summer meeting of skj^ and sea, 
And the ruddy cliffs had a colder hue 
Than flushed his cheek when he married me. 

We passed the porch where the swallows breed, 
We left the little brown church behind, 
And I leaned on his arm, though I had no need, 
Only to feel him so strong and kind. 

One thing I never can quite forget ; 

It grips my threat when I try to pray — 

The keen salt smell of a drying net 

That hung on the churchyard wall that day. 

He would have taken a long, long grave — 
A long, long grave, for he stood so tall . . . 
Oh, God, the crash of a breaking wave. 
And the smell of the nets on the churchyard wall ! 

— Amelia Josephine Burr 



PARTING 

Now I go, do not weep, woman — 
Woman, do not weep ; 

* From In Deep Places, by Amelia Josephine Burr. Copyright, 1914, 
Ceor^e U. Doran Company, publishers. 



FRIENDSHIP AND LOVE 153 

Though I go from you to die, 

W6 shall both lie down 

At the foot of the hill, and sleep. 

Now I go, do not weep, woman — 
Woman, do not weep ; 
Earth is our mother and our tent the sky. 
Though I go from you to die, 
We shall both lie down 
At the foot of the hill, and sleep. 

— Alice Corhin Henderson 



THE PENALTY OF LOVE 

If Love should count you worthy, and should deigu 
One day to seek your door and be your guest, 
Pause ! ere you draw the bolt and bid him rest, 

If in your old content you would remain. 

For not alone he enters: in his train 
Are angels of the mists, the lonely quest. 
Dreams of the unfulfilled and unpossessed, 

And sorrow, and Life's immemorial pain. 

He wakes desires you never may forget, 
He shows you stars you never saw before, 
He makes you share wath him, for evermore. 

The burden of the world's divine regret. 

How wise were you to open not! — and yet, 

How poor if you should turn him from the door. 

— Sidney Eoyse Lysaght 



THOUGHT AND FANCY 



BARTER * 

Life has loveliness to sell — 
All beautiful and splendid things, 

Blue waves whitened on a cliff, 

Climbing fire that sways and sings, 

And children's faces looking up 

Holding wonder like a cup. 

Life has loveliness to sell — 

]\Iusic like a curve of gold, 
Scent of pine trees in the rain, 

Eyes that love 3'ou, arms that hold, 
And for your spirit's still delight, 
Holy thoughts that star the night. 

Spend all you have for loveliness. 

Buy it and never count the cost, 
For one white sinking hour of peace 

Count many a year of strife well lost. 
And for a breath of ecstasy 
Give all you have been or could be. 

— Sara Teasdale 



TIME, YOU OLD GYPSY MAN * 

Time, you old gj'psy man, 
Will you not stay, 

* From Lot^e Soncfs, by Sara Teasdale. Used by special permission of 
The Macmillan Company, publishers. 

* From Poems, by Ralph Hodgson. Used by special permission of The 
Macmillan Company, publishers. 

157 



158 MODERN VERSE 

Put up your caravan 
Just for one day ? 

All things I'll give you 
Will you be my guest, 
Bells for your jennet 
Of silver the best. 
Goldsmiths shall beat you 
A great golden ring. 
Peacocks shall bow to you, 
Little boys sing. 
Oh, and sweet girls will 
Festoon you with may, 
Time, you old gypsy, 
Why hasten away? 
Last week in Babylon, 
Last night in Rome, 
Morning, and in the crush 
Under Paul's dome; 
Under Paul's dial 
You tighten your rein — 
Only a moment. 
And off once again ; 
Off to some city 
Now blind in the womb, 
Off to another 
Ere that's in the tomb. 

Time, you old gypsy man, 

Will you not stay. 
Put up your caravan 

Just for one day? 

— Ralph Hodgson 



THOUGHT AND FANCY 159 



SONNET 

There was an Indian, who had known no change, 

Who strayed content along a sunlit beach 
Gathering shells. He heard a sudden strange 

Commingled noise ; looked up ; and gasped for speech. 
For in the bay, where nothing was before, 

Moved on the sea, by magic, huge canoes, 
With bellying cloths on poles, and not one oar. 

And fluttering colored signs and clambering crews. 

And he, in fear, this naked man alone. 
His fallen hands forgetting all their shells, 

His lips gone pale, knelt low behind a stone, 
And stared, and saw, and did not understand, 

Columbus's doom-burdened caravels 

Slant to the shore, and all their seamen land. 

C. Squire 



PROVINCETOWN 

All summer in the close-locked streets the crowd 
Elbows its way past glittering shops to strains 
Of noisy rag-time, men and girls, dark skinned,- 
From warmer foreign waters they have come 
To our New England. Purring like sleek cats 
The cushioned motors of the rich crawl through 
While black-haired babies scurry to the curb: 
Pedro, Maria, little Gabriel 



160 MODERN VERSE 

Whose red bandana mothers selling fruit 
Have this in common with the fresh white caps 
Of those first immigrants — courage to leave 
Familiar hearths and build new memories. 

Blood of their blood who shaped these sloping roofs 
And low arched doorways, laid the cobble stones 
Not meant for motors, — you and I rejoice 
When roof and spire sink deep into the night 
And all the little streets reach out their arms 
To be received into the salt-drenched dark. 
Then Provincetown comes to her own again, 
Draws round her like a cloak that shelters her 
From too swift changes of the passing j-ears 
The dunes, the sea, the silent hilltop grounds 
Where solemn groups of leaning headstones hold 
Perpetual reunion of her dead. 

At dusk we feel our way along the wharf 

That juts into the harbor: anchored ships 

With lifting prow and slowly rocking mast 

Ink out their profiles; fishing dories scull 

With muffled lamps that glimmer through the spray; 

We hoar the water plash among the piers 

Rotted with moss, long after sunset stay 

To watch the dim sky-changes ripple down 

The length of quiet ocean to our feet 

Till on the sea rim rising like a world 

Bigger than ours, and laying bare the ships 

In shadowy stillness, swells the yellow moon. 

Between this blue intensity of sea 

And rolling dunes of white-hot sand that bum 

All day across a clean salt wilderness 



THOUGHT AND FANCY 161 

On shores grown sacred as a place of prayer, 
Shine bright invisible footsteps of a band 
Of firm-lipped men and women w4io endured 
Partings from kindred, hardship, famine, death. 
And won for us three hundred years ago 
A reverent proud freedom of the soul. 

— Marie Louise Hersey 



AMERICA 

Up and down he goes . 

with terrible, reckless strides, 

flaunting great lamps 

with joyous swings — 

one to the East 

and one to the West — 

and flaunting two words 

in a thunderous call 

that thrills the hearts of all enemies: 

All, One, All, One; All, One; All, One! 

Beware that queer wild wonderful boy 

and his playground; don't go near! 

All, One, All, One ; All, One ; All, One ; 

Up and down he goes. 

— Alfred Krcymhorg. 



RECESSIONAL 

God of our fathers, known of old. 
Lord of our far-flung battle-line, 

Beneath whose awful hand we hold 
Dominion over palm and pine — 



162 MODERN VERSE 

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, 
Lest we forget — lest we forget ! 

The tumult and the shouting dies; 

The captains and the kings depart: 
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice, 

An humble and a contrite heart. 
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet. 
Lest we forget — lest we forget! 

Far-called, our navies melt away ; 

On dune and headland sinks the fire: 
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday 

Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! 
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, 
Lest we forget — lest we forget ! 

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose 
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe. 

Such boastings as the Gentiles use, 
Or lesser breeds without the Law — 

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, 

Lest we forget — lest we forget ! 

For heathen heart that puts her trust 
In reeking tube and iron shard, 

AH valiant dust that builds on dust. 

And guarding, calls not Thee to guard. 

For frantic boast and foolish word — 

Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord ! 

— Budyard Kipling 



THOUGHT AND FANCY 163 



IF 

If you can keep your head when all about you 

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, 
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, 

But make allowance for their doubting too; 
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, 

Or being lied about, don't deal in lies, 
Or being hated don't give way to hating, 

And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise: 

If you can dream — and not make dreams your master ; 

If you can think— and not make thoughts your aim, 
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster 

And treat those two impostors just the same ; 
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken 

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, 
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, 

And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools: 

If you can make one heap of all your winnings 

And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, 
And lose, and start again at your beginnings 

And never breathe a word about your loss ; 
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew 

To serve your turn long after they are gone. 
And so hold on when there is nothing in you 

Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!" 

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, 
Or walk with Kings — nor lose the common touch. 
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you. 



164 MODERN VERSE 

If all men count with you, but none too much ; 
If you can fill the unforgiving minute 

With sixty seconds' worth of distance run, 
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it. 

And — which is more — you'll be a Man, my son! 

— Budyard Kipling 



COUEAGE 

Courage is but a word, and yet, of words, 
The only sentinel of permanence ; 
The ruddy watch-fire of cold winter days, 
We steal its comfort, lift our weary swords, 
And on. For faith — without it — has no sense; 
And love to wind of doubt and tremor sways; 
And life forever quaking marsh must tread. 

Laws give it not, before it prayer will blush, 
Hope has it not, nor pride of being true. 
'Tis the mysterious soul which never yields, 
But hales us on and on to breast the rush 
Of all the fortunes we shall happen through. 
And when Death calls across his shadowy fields — 
Dying, it answers : ' ' Here ! I am not dead ! ' ' 

^ohn Galsworthy 



PRAYER 

God, though this life is but a wraith. 
Although we know not what we use, 

Although we grope with little faith, 
Give me the heart to fight — and lose. 



THOUGHT AND FANCY 1G5 

Ever insurgent let me be. 

Make me more daring than devout; 
From sleek contentment keep me free, 

And fill me with a bou.yant doubt. 

Open my eyes to visions girt 

With beauty, and with wonder lit — 
But let me always see the dirt. 

And all that spawn and die in it. 

Open my ears to music ; let 

Me thrill with Spring's first flutes and drums — 
But never let me dare forget 

The bitter ballads of the slums. 

From compromise and things half-done, 
Keep me, with stern and stubborn pride; 

And when, at last, the fight is won 
God, keep me still unsatisfied. 

— Louis Untermeyer 



A CREED 

(To Mr. David Lubin) 

There is a destiny that makes us brothers; 

None goes his way alone: 
All that we send into the lives of others 

Comes back into our own. 



166 MODERN VERSE 

I care not what his temples or his creeds. 
One thing holds firm and fast — 

That into his fateful heap of days and deeds 
The soul of a man is cast. 

— Edwin Marlham 



THE GREAT LOVER 

I have been so great a lover : filled my days 

So proudly with the splendor of Love's praise, 

The pain, the calm, and the astonishment, 

Desire illimitable, and still content. 

And all dear names men use, to cheat despair. 

For the perplexed and viewless streams that bear 

Our hearts at random down the dark of life. 

Now, ere the unthinking silence on that strife 

Steals down, I would cheat drowsy Death so far. 

My night shall be remembered for a star 

That outshone all the suns of all men's days. 

Shall I not crown them with immortal praise 

Whom I have loved, who have given me, dared with me 

High secrets, and in darkness knelt to see 

The inenarrable godhead of delight ? 

Love is a flame; — we have beaconed the world's night. 

A city: — and we have built it, these and I. 

An emperor: — we have taught the world to die. 

So, for their sakes I loved, ere I go hence. 

And the high cause of Love's magnificence, 

And to keep loyalties young, I'll write those names 

Golden forever, eagles, crying flames. 



THOUGHT AND FANCY 167 

A.nd set them as a banner, that men may know, 
To dare the generations, burn, and blow 
Out on the wind of Time, shining and streaming . . . 
These I have loved: 

White plates and cups, clean-gleaming, 
Ringed with blue lines ; and feathery, faery dust ; 
Wet roofs, beneath the lamp-light; the strong crust 
Of friendly bread ; and many tasting food ; 
Kainbows ; and the blue bitter smoke of wood ; 
And radiant raindrops couching in cool flowers; > 

And flowers themselves, that sway through sunny hours, 
Dreaming of moths that drink thera under the moon; 
Then, the cool kindliness of sheets, that soon 
Smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss 
Of blankets; grainy wood; live hair that is 
Shining and free; blue-massing clouds; the keen 
Unpassioned beauty of a great machine ; 
The benison of hot water; furs to touch; 
The good smell of old clothes; and other such — 
The comfortable smell of friendly fingers, 
Hair's fragrance, and the musty reek that lingers 
About dead leaves and last year's ferns. . , . 

Dear names, 
Ancl thousand other throng to me ! Royal flames ; 
Sweet water's dimpling laugh from tap or spring; 
Holes in the ground ; and voices that do sing ; 
Voices in laughter, too; and body's pain, 
Soon turned to peace ; and the deep-panting train ; 
Firm sands; the dulling edge of foam 
That browns and dwindles as the wave goes home; 
And washen stones, gay for an hour ; the cold 
Graveness of iron; moist black earthen mold; 
Sleep ; and high places ; footprints in the dew ; 
And oaks; and brown horse-chestnuts, glossy-new; 



168 MODERN VERSE 

And new-peeled sticks; and shininp; pools on o-rass; — 

All these have been my loves. And these shall pass. 

Whatever passes not, in the g'reat hour. 

Nor all my passion, all my prayers, have power 

To hold them with me through the gate of Death. 

They'll play deserter, tnni with the traitor breath. 

Break the high bond we made, and sell Love's trust 

And sacramental covenant to the dust. 

— Oh, never a doubt but, somewhere, I shall wake, 

And give what's left of love again, and make 

New friends, now strangers. . . . 

But the best I've known, 
Stays here, and changes, breaks, grows old, is blown 
About the winds of the world, and fades from brains 
Of living men, and dies. 

Nothing remains. 

O dear my loves, faithless, once again 

This one last gift I give: that after men 

Shall know, and later lovers, far-removed. 

Praise you, "All these w^ere lovely"; say, "He loved." 

Mataiea, 1914. 

— Rupert Brooke 



GIFTS 

God does not give us, when our youth is done, 

Any such dower as we thought should be: 

We are not strong, nor crowned with moon or sun ; 

We are not gods nor conquerors: life's sea 

Has not rolled back to let our feet pass through . 



THOUGHT AND FANCY 1G9 

And if one great desire, long-hoped, came true — 

Some gift long-hungered for, some starry good, 

Some crowning we desired. 

It had lost all its pageant-wonderhood : 

A wonted thing, enveiled no more in flame, 

Dully it came — 

Its winning has not made our feet less tired. 

We are so near the same 

Our mirrors saw in youth ! 

Not very wise : in truth 

Not nobler than we were those j-ears ago; 

"We have to show 

Only a handful of such little things 

As our high-thoughted youth 

Had named of little worth. 

Only . . . the gift to feel 

In little looks of praise, 

In words, in sunny days, 

A pleasantness, a mirth — 

Joy in a bird's far wings, 

Pleasure in flowers breaking out of earth, 

In a child's laughter, in a neighbor's smile; 

And in all quiet things 

Peace for awhile. 

And one more gift — to smile, content to see — 
Ay, to be very glad seeing — alight on high 
The stars we wanted for our jewelry 
Still clear ashine . . . still in the sky. 

— Margaret Widdemer 



170 MODERN VERSE 



EICHARD CORY 

Whenever Richard Cory went down town. 
We people on the pavement looked at him : 

He was a gentleman from sole to crown, 
Clean favored, and imperially slim. 

And he was always quietly arrayed, 

And he was always human when he talked; 

But still he fluttered pulses when he said, 

"Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked. 

And he was rich — yes, richer than a king. 
And admirably schooled in every grace: 

In fine, we thoujrht that he was everything 
To make us wish that we were in his place. 

So on we worked, and waited for the light. 

And went without the meat and cursed the bread ; 

And Richard Cory, one calm summer night. 
Went home and put a bullet through his head. 
— Edwin Arlington Robinson 

A FARMER REMEMBERS LINCOLN * 

"Lincoln?— 

Well, I was in the old Second Maine, 

The first regiment in Washington from the Pine Tree State. 

Of course I didn't get the butt of the clip; 

We was there for guardin' Washington — 

We was all green. 

* Reprinted with permission from Grenstone Poems, by Witter Bynner. 
Copyright, 1917, Frederick A. Stokes Company. 



THOUGHT AND FANCY 171 

"I ain't never ben to but one theater in my life — 

I didn't know how to behave. 

I ain't never ben since. 

I can see as plain as my hat the box where he sat in 

AVhen he was shot. 

I can tell you, sir, there was a panic 

When we found our President was in the shape he was in! 

Never saw a soldier in the world but what liked him. 

"Yes, sir. His looks was kind o' hard to forget. 

He was a spare man, 

An old farmer. 

Everything was all right, you know, 

But he wan't a smooth-appearin ' man at all — 

Not in no ways ; 

Thin-faced, long-necked, 

And a swellin' kind of. a thick lip like. 

"And he was a jolly old fellow — always cheerful; 

He wan't so high but the boys could talk to him their own 

ways. 
While I was servin' at the Hospital 
He'd come in and say, 'You look nice in here,' 
Praise us up, you know. 
And he'd bend over and talk to the boys — 
And he'd talk so good to 'em — so close — 
That's why I call him a farmer. 
I don't mean that everything about him wan't all right, 

you understand. 
It's just — well, I was a farmer — 
And he was my neighbor, anybody's neighbor. 

"I guess even you young folks would 'a' liked him." 

— Witter Bynner 



172 MODERN VERSE 



SUNSET * 

Behold where Night clutches the cup of heaven 
And quaffs the beauty of the world away ! 
Lo, his first draught is all of dazzling day ; 

The next he fills with the red wine of even 

And drinks; then of the twilight's amber, seven 
Deep liquid hues, seven times, superb in ray, 
He fills — and drinks; the last, a mead pale-gray 

Leaves the black beaker gemmed with starry levin. 

Even so does Time quaff our mortality ! 

First, of the effervescing blood and blush 
Of virgin years, then of maturity 

The deeper glow, then of the pallid hush 
Where only the eyes still glitter, till even they — 
After a pause — melt in immenser day. 

— Percy MacKaye. 



SILENCE * 

I have known the silence of the stars and of the sea, 

And the silence of the city when it pauses. 

And the silence of a man and a maid, 

And the silence for which music alone finds the word. 

And the silence of the woods before the winds of spring 

begin. 
And the silence of the sick 

* From The Sistine Eve, by Percy IMacKaye. Used by special permis- 
sion of The Macmillan Company, publishers. 

* From Songs and Ha fires, by Edgar Lee Masters. Used by special 
permission of the Macmillan Company, publishers. 



THOUGHT AND FANCY 173 

When their eyes roam about the room. 

And I ask : For the depths 

Of what use is lan<>'uaoe? 

A beast of the tiekls moans a few times 

When death takes its young. 

And we are voiceless in the presence of realities — 

We cannot speak. 

A curious boy asks an old soldier 

Sitting in front of the grocery store, 

"How did you lose your leg?" 

And the old soldier is struck with silence, 

Or his mind flies away 

Because he cannot concentrate it on Gettysburg. 

It comes back jocosely 

And he says, "A bear bit it off." 

And the boy wonders, while the old soldier 

Dumbly, feebly lives over 

The iiashes of guns, the thunder of cannon, 

The shrieks of the slain, 

And himself lying on the ground, 

And the hospital surgeons, the knives. 

And the long days in bed. 

But if he could describe it all 

He would be an artist. 

But if he were an artist there would be deeper wounds 

Which he could not describe. 

There is the silence of a great hatred. 

And the silence of a great love, 

And the silence of a deep peace of mind. 

And the silence of an embittered friendship. 

There is the silence of a spiritual crisis, 

Through which your soul, exquisitely' tortured, 

Comes with visions not to be uttered 



174 MODERN VEKSE 

Into a realm of higher life. 

And the silence of the gods who understand each other with- 
out speech. 
There is the silence of defeat. 
There is the silence of those unjustly punished; 
And the silence of the d.ying whose hand 
Suddenly grips yours. 

There is the silence between father and son. 
When the father cannot explain his life, 
Even though he be misunderstood for it. 

There is the silence that comes between husband and wife. 

There is the silence of those who have failed; 

And the vast silence that covers 

Broken nations and vanquished leaders. 

There is the silence of Lincoln, 

Thinking of the poverty of his youth. 

And the silence of Napoleon 

After Waterloo. 

And the silence of Jeanne d'Are 

Saying amid the flames, "Blessed Jesus" — 

Revealing in two words all sorrow, all hope. 

And there is the silence of age, 

Too full of wisdom for the tongue to utter it 

In words intelligible to those who have not lived 

The great range of life. 

And there is the silence of the dead. 

If we who are in life cannot speak 

Of profound experiences, 

Why do you marvel that the dead 

Do not tell you of death ? 

Their silence shall be interpreted 

As we approach them. 

— Edgar Lee Masters 



THOUGHT AND FANCY 175 



THE COWBOY'S DREAM* 

Last night as I lay on the prairie, 
And looked at the stars in the sky, 
I wondered if ever a cowboy 
Would drift to that sweet by and by. 

Roll on, roll on ; 

Roll on, little dogies, roll on, roll on, 

Roll on, roll on ; 

Roll on, little dogies, roll on. 

The road to that bright, happy region 
Is a dim narrow trail, so they say ; 
But the broad one that leads to perdition 
Is posted and blazed all the w^ay. 

They say there will be a great round-up, 
And cowboys, like dogies, will stand, 
To be marked by the Riders of Judgment 
Who are posted and know every brand. 

I know there's many a stray cowboy 

Who'll be lost at the great, final sale, 

When he might have gone in the green pastures 

Had he known of the dim, narrow trail. 

I wonder if ever a cowboy 
Stood ready for that Judgment Day, 
And could say to the Boss of the Riders, 
"I'm ready, come drive me away." 

Sung to the air of My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocecm. 



176 MODERN VERSE 

For they, like the cows that are locoed, 

Stampede at the sight of a hand, 

Are dragged with a rope to the round-up, 

Or get marked with some crooked man's brand. 

And I'm scared that I'll be a stray yearling, — 
A maverick, unbranded on high, — 
And get cut in the bunch with the "rustics" 
When the Boss of the Riders goes by. 

For they tell of another big owner 
Who's ne'er overstocked, so they say. 
But who always makes room for the sinner 
Who drifts from the straight, narrow way. 

They say he will never forget yen, 
That he knows every action and look ; 
So, for safety, you'd better get branded, 
Have your name in the great Tally Book. 

— Joh7i A. Lomax. 



GENERAL WILLIAM BOOTH ENTERS INTO 
HEAVEN * 



[Bass drum beaten loudhj] 
Booth led boldly with his big bass dnim — 
(Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?) 

* From (loirnil William Booth Enters into Heaven and Other Poems, 
by Vacliel Lindsay. Used by special permission of The Macmillan Com- 
pany, publishers. 

(To be sung to the tune of The Blood of the Lamb with indicated 
instrument) 



THOUGHT AND FANCY 177 

The Saints smiled gravely and they said: "He's come." 

(Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?) 

Walking lepers followed, rank on rank, 

Lurching bravoes from the ditches dank. 

Drabs from the alleyways and drug fiends pale — 

Minds still passion-ridden, soul-powers frail: — 

Vermin-ealen saints with mouldy breath, 

Unwashed legions with the ways of Death — 

(Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?) 

[Banjos] 
Every slum had sent its half-a-score 
The round world over. (Booth had groaned for more.) 
Every banner that the wide world flies 
Bloomed with glory and transcendent d^^es. 
Big-voiced lasses made their banjos bang, ' 

Tranced, fanatical, they shrieked and sang: — - 
"Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?" • 

Hallelujah ! It was queer to see 
Bull-necked convicts with that land made free. 
Loons with trumpets blowed a blare, blare, blare 
On, on upward thro' the golden air! 
(Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?) 



II 

{Bass drum slower and softer] 
Booth died blind and still by Faith he trod, 
Eyes still dazzled by the ways of God. 
Booth led boldly, and he looked the chief 
Eagle countenance in sharp relief, 
Beard a-flying, air of high command 



178 MODERN VERSE 

Unabated in that holy land. 

[Sweet flute music] 
Jesus came from out the court-house door, 
Stretched his hands above the passing poor. 
Booth saw not, but led his queer ones there 
Eound and round the mighty court-house square. 
Yet in an instant all that blear review 
Marched on spotless, clad in raiment new. 
The lame were straightened, withered limbs uncurled 
And blind eyes opened on a new, sweet world. 

[Bass drum louder] 
Drabs and vixens in a flash made whole ! 
Gone was the weasel-head, the snout, the jowl ! 
Sages and sibyls now, and athletes clean, 
Rulers of empires, and of forests green ! 

[Grand chorus of all instruments. Tamhourines to the 
foreground.] 
The hosts were sandalled, and their wings were fire! 
(Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?) 
But their noise played havoc with the angel-choir. 
(Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?) 
O, shout Salvation ! It was good to see 
Kings and Princes by the Lamb set free. 
The banjos rattled and the tambourines 
Jing-jing-jingled in the hands of Queens. 

[Reverently sung, no instruments] 
And when Booth halted by the curb for prayer 
He saw his Master thro' the flag-filled air. 
Christ came gently with a robe and crown 



THOUGHT AND FANCY 179 

For Booth the soldier, while the throng knelt down. 
He saw King Jesns. They were face to face. 
And he knelt a-weeping in that holy place. 
Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb? 

— Vachel Lindsay 

THE DEVIL * 

Along de road from Bord a Plouffe 

To Kaz-a-baz-u-a 
Were poplar trees lak sojers stan', 
An' all de Ian' is pleasan' Ian', 
In off de road dere leev's a man 
Call' Louis Desjardins. 

An' Louis, w'en he firse begin 

To work hees leetle place, 
He work so hard de neighbors say, 
"Unless he tak's de easy way 
Dat feller's sure to die some day, 

We see it on hees face." 

'T was lak a swamp, de farm he got, 

De water ev'ryw'ere— 
Might drain her off as tight as a drum. 
An' back dat water is boun' to come 
In less 'n a day or two — ba Gum ! 

'T would mak' de angel swear. 

So Louis t 'ink of de bimeby, 
If he leev so long as dat, 
Wen he's ole an' blin' an' mebbe deaf, 

* From the Poetical ^yorks of ^Yil]iam Uenrii Drummo'nd. Courtesy 
of G. P. Putnam's Sons, Publishers, New York and London. 



180 MODERN VERSE 

All alone on de house hese'f, 
No frien', no money, no not'ing lef ', 
An' poor — can't kip a cat. 

So wan of de night on winter tarn, 

• W 'en Louis is on hees bed, 
He say out loud lak a crazy man, 
"I'm sick of tryin' to clear dis Ian', 
Work any harder I can't stan'. 
Or it will kill me dead. 

"Now if de devil would show hese'f 
An' say to me, 'Tiens! Louis! 

Hard tam an' work she's at an' en', 

You'll leev' lak a Grand Seigneur, ma frien', 

If only you'll be ready w'en 

I want you to come wit ' me, ' 

"I'd say, 'Yass, yass — 'maudit ! w'at's dat?' 

An' he see de devil dere — 
Brimstone, ev'ryt'ing bad dat smell, 
You know right away he's come from — well, 
De place I never was care to tell — 

An' wearin' hees long black hair, 

Lak election man, de kin' I mean 
You see aroun' church door, 
Spreadin' hese'f on great beeg speech 
'Bout poor man's goin' some day be reech, 
But dat's w'ere it alway come de heetch. 
For poor man's alway poor. 

De only diff'rence — me — I see 

'Tween devil an ' lon^-hair man 



THOUGHT AND FANCY 181 

It's hard to say, but I know it's true, 
Wen devil promise a t'ing to do 
Dere's no mistak' he kip it too — 
I hope you understan'. 

So de devil spik, "You're not content, 

An' want to be reech, Louis — 
All right, you'll have plaintee, never fear 
No wan can beat you far an' near, 
An' I'll leave you alone for t'orty year. 

An ' den you will come wit ' me. 

* ' Be careful now — it 's beeg- contrac ', 

So mebbe it 's bes ' go slow : 
For me — de promise I mak' to you 
Is good as de bank Riviere du Loup ; 
For you — w'enever de tam is due, 

Ba tonder! you got to go." 

Louis try hard to tak ' hees tam 

But w'en he see de fall 
Comin' along in a week or so, 
All aroun' heem de rain an' snow 
An' pork on de bar'l runnin' low. 

He don't feel good at all. 

An' w'en he t'ink of de swampy farm 

An' gettin' up winter night, 
Watehin' de stove if de win' get higher 
For fear de chimley go on fire. 
It's makin' poor Louis feel so tire 

He tell de devil, "All right." 

"Correct," dat feller say right away, 



182 MODERN VERSE 

"I'll only say, Au revoir," 
An' out of de winder lie's goin' pouf ! 
Beeg nose, long hair, short tail, an' hoof 
Off on de road to Bord a Plouffe 

Crossin' de reever dere. 

Wen Louis get up nex' day, ma frien', 

Dere's lot of devil sign — 
Bar'l o' pork an' keg o' rye, 
Bag o' potato ten foot high. 
Pile o' wood nearly touch de sky, 

Was some o' de t'ing he fin'. 

Suit o' clothes would have cos' a lot 

An' ev'ryt'ing I dunno. 
Trotter horse w'en he want to ride 
Eatin' away on de barn outside, 
Stan' all day if he's never tied. 

An' watch an' chain also. 

An' swamp dat's bodder heem many tarn, 

Were is dat swamp to-day? 
Don't care if you're huntin' up an' down 
You won't fin' not'ing but medder groun'. 
An' affer de summer come aroun' 
Were can you see such hay? 

Wall! de year go by, an' Louis leev' 

Widout no work to do. 
Rise w'en he lak on winter day, 
Fin' all de snow is clear away. 
No fuss, no not'ing, dere's de sleigh 

An' trotter waitin' too. 



THOUGHT AND FANCY 183 

Wen forty year is nearly t'roo 

An' devil's not come back 
'Course Louis say, ' ' Wall ! he forget 
Or t 'ink de tarn 's not finish yet ; 
I'll tak' ma chance an' never fret," 

But dat's w'ere he mak' mistak'. 

For on a dark an' stormy night 

Wen Louis is sittin' dere, 
Affer he fassen up de door 
De devil come as he come before, 
Lookin' de sam' only leetle more, 

For takin' heem — you know w'ere. 

"Asseyez vous, sit down, ma frien', 

Bad night be on de road ; 
You come long way an' should be tire — 
Jus' wait an' mebbe I feex de fire — 
Tak' off your clothes for mak' dem drier, 

Dey mus' be heavy load." 

Dat's how poor Louis Desjardins 

Talk to de devil, sir — 
Den say, "Try leetle w'isky blanc, 
Dey 're makin' it back on St. Laurent — 
It's good for night dat's cole an' raw," 

But devil never stir, 

Until he smell de smell dat come 

Wen Louis mak' it hot 
Wit' sugar, spice, an' ev'ryt'ing. 
Enough to mak' a man's head sing — 
For winter, summer, fall an' spring — 

It's very bes' t'ing we got. 



184 MODERN VERSE 

An' so the devil can't refuse 

To try de w'isky blanc, 
An' say, "I'm tryin' many drink, 
An' dis is de fines' I don't t'ink, 
De firs, ba tonder ! mak' me wink — 

Hooraw, poor Canadaw ! ' ' 

"Merci — non, non — I tak' no more," 

De devil say at las', 
''For tam is up wit' you, Louis, 
So come along-, ma frien', wit' me. 
So many star I'm sure I see, 

De storm she mus' be pas'." 

"No hurry — wait a minute, please," 

Say Louis Desjardins, 
"We'll have a smoke before we're t'roo, 
'T will never hurt mese 'f or you 
To try a pipe, or mebbe two, 

Of tabac Canayen."* 

"Wan pipe is all I want for me — 

We'll finish our smoke downstair," 
De devil say, an' it was enough, 
For w'en he tak de very firse puff 
He holler out, "I\Iaudit! w'at stuff! 

Fresh air ! fresh air ! ! fresh air ! ! ! " 

An ' oh ! he was never sick before 

Till he smoke tabac Bruneau — 
Can 't walk or fly, but he want fresh air 
So Louis put heem on rockin' chair 
An' t'row heem off on de road out dere — 
An' tole heem eo below. 



THOUGHT AND FANCY 185 

An' he shut de door an' fill de place 

Wit' tabae Canayen, 
An' never come out, an' dat's a fac' — 
But smoke away till hees face is black — 
So dat's w'y de devil don't come back 

For Louis Desjardins. 

An' dere he's yet, an' dere he'll stay — 

So weech of de two '11 win 
Can't say for dat — it's kin' of a doubt, 
For Louis, de pipe never leave hee.s mout', 
An' night or day can't ketch heem out, 

An' devil's too scare' go in. 

—W illiani Henri) Drummond 



THE HOST OF THE AIR * 

O'Driscoll drove with a song 
The wild duck and the drake, 
From the tall and the tufted reeds 
Of the drear Hart Lake. 

And he saw how the reeds grew dark 
At the coming of night tide, 
And dreamed of the long dim hair 
Of Bridget his bride. 



* From Poems, by William Butler Yeats. Used by special permission 
of The Macmillan Company, publishers. 



186 MODERN VERSE 

He heard while he sang and dreamed 
A piper piping away, 
And never was piping so sad, 
And never was piping so gay. 

And he saw young men and young girls 
Who danced on a level place 
And Bridget his bride among them, 
With a sad and a gay face. 

The dancers crowded about him 

And many a sweet thing said, 

And a young man brought him red wine 

And a 3'oung girl white bread. 

But Bridget drew him by the sleeve 
Away from the merry bands, 
To old men playing at cards 
With a twinkling of ancient hands. 

The bread and the wine had a doom. 
For these were the host of the air; 
He sat and played in a dream 
Of her long dim hair. 

He played with the merry old men 
And thought not of evil chance. 
Until one bore Bridget his bride 
Away from the merry dance. 

He bore her away in his arms. 
The handsomest young man there, 
And his neck and his breast and his arms 
Were drowned in her long dim hair. 



THOUGHT AND FANCY 187 

O'Driscoll scattered the cards 

And out of his dream awoke : 

Old men and young men and young girls 

Were gone like a drifting smoke ; 

But he heard high up in the air 
A piper piping away, 
And never was piping so sad. 
And never was piping so gay. 

— WilUam B. Yeats 



THE FIDDLER OF DOONEY * 

When I play on my fiddle in Dooney 
Folk dance like a wave of the sea; 
My cousin is priest in Kilvarnet, 
]\Iy brother in Moharabuiee. 

I passed my brother and cousin: 
They read in their books of prayer; 
I read in my book of songs 
I bought at the Sligo fair. 

When we come at the end of time, 
To Peter sitting in state, 
He will smile on the three old spirits. 
But call me first through the gate; 

For the good are always the merry, 
Save by an evil chance, 

* From Poems, by William Butler Yeats. Used by special permission 
of The Macmillan Company, publishers. 



188 MODERN VERSE 

And the merry love the fiddle 
And the merry love to dance. 

And when the folk there spy me. 
They will all come up to me, 
With "Here is the fiddler of Dooney !" 
And dance like a wave of the sea. 

— William B. Yeats 



THE FAUN SEES SNOW FOR THE 
FIRST TIME 

Zeus, 

Brazen-thunder-hurler, 

Cloud-whirler, son-of-Kronos, 

Send vengeance on these Oreads 

Who strew 

White frozen flecks of mist and cloud 

Over the brown trees and the tufted grass 

Of the meadows, where the stream 

Runs black through shining banks 

Of bluish white. 

Zeus, 

Are the halls of heaven broken up 
That you flake down upon me 
Feather-strips of marble ? 

Dis and Styx ! 

When I stamp my hoof 

The frozen-cloud-specks jam into the cleft 

So that I reel upon two slippery points. . . 



THOUGHT AND FANCY 189 

Fool, to stand here cursing 
When I might be running ! 

— Richard Aldington 

ETIQUETTE * 

The Gossips tell a story of the Sparrow and the Cat, 
The Feline thin and hungry and the Bird exceeding fat. 
With eager, famished energy and claws of gripping steel, 
Puss pounced upon the Sparrow and prepared to make a meal. 

The Sparrow never struggled when he found that he was 

caught 
(If somewhat slow in action he was mighty quick of thought), 
But chirped in simple dignity that seemed to fit the case, 
' ' No Gentleman would ever eat before he 'd washed his face ! ' ' 

This hint about his Manners wounded Thomas like a knife 
(For Cats are great observers of the Niceties of Life) ; 
He paused to lick his paws, which seemed the Proper Thing 

to do, — 
And, chirruping derisively, away the Sparrow flew ! 

In helpless, hopeless hunger at the Sparrow on the bough, 
Poor Thomas glowered longingly, and vowed a Solemn Vow: 
"Henceforth I'll eat my dinner first, theii wash myself!" — 

And that's 
The Universal Etiquette for Educated Cats. 

—Arthur Guitcrman 

* From The Laughing Muse, by Arthur Guiterman. Copyright, 1915,. 
by Harper & Brothers. 



190 MODERN VERSE 

THE POTATOES' DANCE* 

(A Poem Game) 
I 

"Down cellar," said the cricket, 
"Down cellar," said the cricket, 
"Down cellar," said the cricket, 
"I saw a ball last night 

In honor of a lady, 

In honor of a lady. 

In honor of a lady, 

Whose wings were pearly-white, 

The breath of bitter weather, 

The breath of bitter weather, 

The breath of bitter weather, 

Had smashed the cellar pane. 

We entertained a drift of leaves. 

We entertained a drift of leaves. 

We entertained a drift of leaves. 

And then of snow and rain. 

But we were dressed for winter. 

But we were dressed for winter. 

But we were dressed for winter. 

And loved to hear it blow. 

In honor of the lady. 

In honor of the lady, 

In honor of the lady, 

Who makes potatoes grow, 

Our guest the Irish lady, 

* From The Chinese Nightingale, by Vacliel Lindsay. Used by special 
permission of The Macmillan Company, publishers. 



THOUGHT AND FANCY 191 

The tiny Irish lady, 
The airy Irish lady, 
Who makes potatoes grow. 

II 

"Potatoes were the waiters, 
Potatoes were the waiters. 
Potatoes were the waiters, 
Potatoes were the band, 
Potatoes were the dancers 
Kicking up the sand. 
Kicking up the sand, 
Kicking up the sand, 
Potatoes were the dancers 
Kicking up the sand. 
Their legs were old burnt matches, 
Their legs were old burnt matches, 
Their legs were old burnt matches, 
Their arms were just the same. 
They jigged and whirled and scrambled, 
Jigged and whirled and scrambled, 
Jigged and whirled and scrambled, 
In honor of the dame, 
The noble Irish lady 
Who make potatoes dance, 
The witty Irish lady. 
The saucy Irish lady, 
The laughing Irish lady 
Who makes potatoes prance. 

Ill 

' ' There was just one sweet potato. 
He was golden brown and slim. 



192 MODERN VERSE 

The lady loved his dancing, 

The lady loved his dancing, 

The lady loved his dancing, 

She danced all night with him, 

She danced all night with him, 

Alas, he wasn't Irish. 

So when she flew away, 

They threw him in the coal-bin, 

And there he is to-day, 

Wliere they cannot hear his sighs 

And his weeping for the lady, 

The glorious Irish lady. 

The beautious Irish lady. 

Who 

Gives 

Potatoes 

Eyes." 

— Vachel Lindsay 



DAGONET, ARTHUR'S FOOL 

Dagonet, Arthur's fool, 

He shocked and crashed with the rest, 
But they gave him his coup-de-grace, 

When Arthur fought in the West. 

Dagonet, Arthur's fool, 

They smashed him, body and soul, 
And they shoved him under a bush. 

To die like a rat in a hole. 



THOUGHT AND FANCY 193 

His poor little queer fool's body- 
Was twisted awry with pain : — 

Dagonet, Arthur's fool. 
Left to die in the rain. 

He writhed and groaned in his torment. 
But none heard his shameful cry : — 

Dagonet, Arthur's fool, 

Whom they left alone to die. 

Mordred hated the fool. 

And he passed the place where he lay, 
"Ah-ha! my pleasant fool^ 

We'll see if you'll jest to-day!" 

"We've silenced your bitter tongue. 
We've stopped your quirks and pride!" 

And Mordred, who ne'er forgot, 
He kicked the fool aside. 

Mordred was ever vile. 

He scorned each knightly rule, 
He swung a crashing blow 

Right on the mouth of the fool. 

He lifted his bleeding head, 

Dazed for a moment's space; 
Then Dagonet, Arthur's fool. 

He laughed in Mordred 's face. 

— M. St. Clare Byrne 



194 ' MODERN VERSE 



FORTY SINGING SEAMEN * 

"In our lands be Beeres and Lyons of dyvers colours as ye redd, 
grene, black, and white. And in our land be also unicornes and these 
Unicornes slee many Lyons. . . . Also there dare no man make a lye 
in our lande, for if he dyde he sholde incontynent be sleyn." — Mediaeval 
Epistle, of Pope Prester John. 



Across the seas of Wonderland to Mogadore we plodded, 

Forty singing seamen in an old black barque, 
And we landed in the twilight where a Polyphemus nodded 
With his battered moon-eye winking red and yellow through 
the dark! 
For his eye was growing mellow 
Rich and ripe and red and yellow. 
As was time, since old Ulysses made him bellow in the dark ! 
Cho. — Since Ulysses bunged his eye up with a pine-torch in 
the dark! 



II 

Were they mountains in the gloaming or the giant's ugly 
shoulders 
Just beneath the rolling eyeball, with its bleared and vinous 
glow, 
Red and yellow o'er the purple of the pines among the boulders 
And the shaggy horror brooding on the sullen slopes below ? 
Were they pines among the boulders 
Or the hair upon his shoulders? 

* Reprinted with permission from Collected Poems, by Alfred Noyes. 
Copyright, 1913, Frederick A. Stokes Company. 



THOUGHT AND FANCY 195 

We were only simple seamen, so of course we didn't know. 
Clio. — We were simply singing seamen, so of course we 
couldn't know. 

Ill 

But we crossed a plain of poppies, and we came upon a foun- 
tain 
Not of water, but of jewels, like a spray of leaping fire ; 
And behind it, in an emerald glade, beneath a golden mountain 
There stood a crystal palace, for a sailor to admire ; 
For a troop of ghosts came round us, 
Which with leaves of bay they crowned us. 
Then with grog they well nigh drowned us, to the depth of 
our desire! 
Cho. — And 'twas very friendly of them, as a sailor can admire ! 

IV 

There was music all about us, we were growing quite forgetful 
We were only singing seamen from the dirt of London-town, 
Though the nectar that we swallowed seemed to vanish half 
regretful 
As if we wasn't good enough to take such vittles down, 
When we saw a sudden figure, 
Tall and black as any nigger, 
Like the devil — only bigger — drawing near us with a frown ! 
Cho. — Like the devil — but much bigger — and he wore a golden 
crown ! 



And "What's all this?" he growls at us! With dignity we 
chaunted, 
"Forty singing seamen, sir, as won't be put upon!" 



196 MODERN VERSE 

"What? Englishmen?" he cries, "Well, if ye don't mind 
being haunted, 
Faith you're welcome to my palace; I'm the famous Pres- 
ter John ! 
Will ye walk into my palace? 
I don 't bear 'ee any malice ! 
One and all ye shall be welcome in the halls of Prester 
John!" 
Cho. — So we walked into the palace and the halls of Prester 
John ! 

• VI 

Now the door was one great diamond and the hall a hollow 
ruby — 
Big as Beachy Head, my lads, nay bigger by a half ! 
And I sees the mate wi' mouth agape, a-staring like a booby, 
And the skipper close behind him, with his tongue out like 
a calf ! 
Now the way to take it rightly 
Was to walk along politely 
Just as if you didn't notice — so I couldn't help but laugh! 
Cho. — For they both forgot their manners and the crew was 
bound to laugh ! 

VII 

But he took us through his palace and, my lads, as I'm a 
sinner, 
We walked into an opal like a sunset-colored cloud — 
"My dining-room," he says, and, quick as light we saw a 
dinner 
Spread before us by the fingers of a hidden fairy crowd; 
And the skipper, swaying gently 
After dinner, murmurs faintly, 



THOUGHT AND FANCl 197 

*'I looks towards you, Prester John, you've done us very 
proud ! ' ' 
Cho. — And we drank his health with honors, for he dmie us 
very proud ! 

VIII 

Then he walks us to his garden where we sees a feathered 
demon 
Very splendid and important on a sort of spicy tree ! 
"That's the Phoenix," whispers Prester, "which all eddicated 
seamen 
Knows the only one existent, and he 's waiting for to flee ! 
When his hundred years expire 
Then he'll set hisself a-fire 
And another from his ashes rise most beautiful to see!" 
Cho. — With wings of rose and emerald most beautiful to see ! 

IX 

Then he sa^'S, "In yonder forest there's a little silver river, 

And whosoever drinks of it, his youth shall never die! 
The centuries go by, but Prester John endures forever 

With his miLsic in the mountains and his magic on the sky ! 
While your hearts are growing colder, 
While your world is growing older. 
There's a magic in the distance, where the sea-line meets 
the sky. ' ' 
Cho. — It shall call to singing seamen till the fount o' song is 
dry! 



So we thought we'd up and seek it, but that forest fair defied 
us, — 
First a crimson leopard laughs at us most horrible to see. 



198 MODERN VERSE 

Then a sea-green lion came and sniffed and licked his chops 
and eyed us, 
While a red and yellow unicorn was dancing round a tree ! 
We was trying to look thinner 
Which was hard, because our dinner 
Must ha' made us very tempting to a cat of high degree! 
Cho. — Must ha' made us very tempting to the whole menar- 
jeree ! 

XI 

So we scuttled from that forest and across the poppy meadows 
Where the awful shaggy horror brooded o 'er us in the dark ! 
And we pushes out from shore again a-jumping at our shadows, 
And pulls away most joyful to the old black barque ! 
And home again we plodded 
While the Polyphemus nodded 
With his battered moon-eye winking red and yellow through 
the dark, 
Cho. — Oh, the moon above the mountains, red and yellow 
through the dark! 

XII 

Across the seas of Wonderland to London-town we blundered, 

Forty singing seamen as was puzzled for to know 
If the visions that we Saw was caused by — here again we 
pondered — 
A tipple in a vision forty thousand years ago. 
Could the grog we dreamt we swallowed 
Make us dream of all that followed? 
We were only simple seamen, so of course we didn 't know ! 
Cho. — We were simple singing seamen, so of course we could 
not know. 

— Alfred Noyes 



THOUGHT AND FANCY 199 



WHEN SHAKESPEARE LAUGHED * 

When Shakespeare laughed, the fun began! 
Even the tavern barmaids ran 

To choke in secret, and unbent 

A lace, to ease their merriment. 
The Mermaid rocked to hear the man. 

Then Ben his aching girth would span. 
And roar above his pasty pan, 

"Avast there. Will, for I am spent!" 
When Shakespeare laughed. 

I' faith, let him be grave who can 
When Falstaff, Puck and Caliban 
In one explosive jest are blent ! 
The boatmen on the river lent 
An ear to hear the mirthful clan 
When Shakespeare laughed. 

— Christopher Morley 



SUGGESTED BY A COVER OF A VOLUME 
OF KEATS 'S POEMS* 

Wild little bird, who chose thee for a sign 
To put upon the cover of this book? 

* From The Rocking Horse, by Cliristoplier Morley. Copyright, 1919, 
George H. Doran Company, publisliers. 

* From A Dome of Many-Colored Glass, by Amy Lowell. Used by 
special permission of The Macmillan Company, publishers. 



200 MODERN VERSE 

Who heard thee singing in the distance dim. 
The vague, far greenness of the enshrouding wood, 
When the damp freshness of the morning earth 
Was full of pungent sweetness and thy song? 

Who followed over moss and twisted roots, 

And pushed through the wet leaves of trailing vineB 

Where slanting sunbeams gleamed uncertainly, 

While ever clearer came the dropping notes, 

Until, at last, two widening trunks disclosed 

Thee singing on a spra^^ of branching beech, 

Hidden, then seen; and always that same song 

Of joyful sweetness, rapture incarnate, 

Filled the hushed, rustling stillness of the wood? 

We do not know what bird thou art. Perhaps 
• That fairy bird, fabled in island tale, 
Who never sings but once, and then his song 
Is of such fearful beauty that he dies 
From sheer exuberance of melody. 

For this they took thee, little bird, for this 
They captured thee, tilting among the leaves, 
And stamped thee for a symbol on this book. 
For it contains a song surpassing thine. 
Richer, more sweet, more poignant. And the poet 
Who felt this burning beauty, and whose heart 
Was full of loveliest things, sang all he knew 
A little while, and then he died; too frail 
To bear this untamed, passionate burst of song. 

— Amy Lowell 



THOUGHT AND FANCY 201 



THE SHEPHERD TO THE POET 

Och, what's the good o' spinnin' words 

As fine as silken thread ? 
"Will "golden gorse upon the hill" 

Be gold to buy ye bread? 

An' while ye 're list'nin' in the glen 

"To catch the thrush's lay," 
Your thatch is scattered be th' wind. 

Your sheep have gone astray. 

Th ' time ye 're af ther makin ' rhymes 

0' "leppin' waves an' sea," 
Arrah ! ye should be sellin ' then 

Your lambs upon the quay. 

Sure, 'tis God's ways is very quare. 

An' far beyont my ken, 
How o' the selfsame clay he makes 

Poets an ' useful men ! 

— Agnes,Kendrick Gray 



TO YOURSELF * 

Talking to people in well-ordered ways is prose, 

And talking to them in well-ordered ways or 

in disordered outbreak may be poetry. 

* Reprinted with permission from Grenstone Poems, by Witter Bynner. 
Copyright, 1917, Frederick A. Stokes Company. 



202 MODERN VERSE 

But talking to yourself, out on a country road, 
no houses and no hedges to conceal a listener, 

Only yourself and heaven and the trees and a 
wind and a linnet ; 

Talking to yourself in those long breaths that 
sing or hum or whistle fullness of the heart, 

Or the short breaths, 

Beats of the heart, 

Whether it be of sadness or a haystack. 

Mirth or the smell of the sea, 

A cloud or luck or love. 

Any of these or none — 

Is poetry. 

— Witter Bynner 



NOTES 



THE WHY AXD WHEREFORE OF THE 
NOTES 

Recently, a former pupil was telling me about his summer 
vacation — two months spent near the sea. (]\Iost of it, I fancy, 
had been in the sea.) He casually remarked that he had 
taught eight people to dive. 

"Splendid! How do you teach them?" I queried. 

"Oh, anybody could do it. First you have them come out 
on the raft with you every day and watch the fun. After 
awhile you begin to tease them about not doing it and tell 
them how easy it is. Sometimes you .just accidentally push 
them off the raft when they're standing near the edge. Once 
they've found out that it doesn't kill them to go 'way under 
water, you can begin to tell them how to dive right — how to 
keep their feet together, and aim out rather than down. Not 
too much at a time, though, because that rattles them. I 
guess they learn most from watching the different people on 
the raft do it. Of course, they have to keep at it themselves 
all the time. But they certainly learn a lot from seeing 
stunts done right, or even from seeing them done wrong." 

"Could a person learn without being taught?" 

"Well, yes, if he kept at it long enough. Some people find 
it a lot easier than others. But I know, myself, that it would 
have taken me weeks longer if I hadn't kept my eyes open 
and taken tips from the other fellows once in a while. Maybe 
you don't call that being taught. It's more like — well, it's 
l)eing shown how to teach yourself." 

This boy is planning to be an engineer. I hope he will 
sometime have a chance to combine teaching with his en- 

205 



206 THE WHY AND WHEREFORE OF THE NOTES 

gineering". For unconsciously lie lias discovered the chief 
secret of pedagogy — giving a person directions and examples 
whereby he may teach himself. 

These Notes give examples of the way some boys and girls at 
Hartford High have studied modern verse for the last two 
years. I don't claim it is the only way; perhaps it is not 
always the right way. For instance, my pupils have never 
cared much about lists of all the books written by individual 
poets. (If they were really interested in an author's work, 
they went down to the Public Library and looked him up for 
themselves; otherwise, titles made no impression on them.) 
So here I have usually indicated only the general extent of 
each poet's work, except in cases where further information 
was not readily accessible. Neither have my classes liked 
ready-made critical estimates of a poet's work. As a girl 
once put it, "I suppose the critics are right in saying that 
Shakespeare was great, because cVitics don't agree on a thing 
for hundreds of years unless it's true; but with modern 
authors, I should think every one had a right to her own 
opinion." That seemed to be the general feeling, and it 
produced some heated discussion which we found most stimu- 
lating. For that reason, I have tried to refrain from labels 
of all kinds. Now, perhaps, pupils in other schools would 
like all this information. If so, there are plenty of library 
catalogues available, and plenty of books of criticism. (At 
the end of the Supplementary^ Reading List will be found 
several titles of the latter.) 

Three things, however, my pupils did find of verv^ great 
assistance in "being shown how to teach themselves" poetry. 
They were always curious to know about the lives of authors, 
and often discovered interesting connections between bio- 
graphical details and poems which they read. Second, before 
they could really understand a poem, they sometimes needed 
information about its allusions, its background, its technique ; 
and they found such information hard to track down, espe- 



THE WHY AND WHEREFORE OF THE NOTES 207 

cially in a short time. And last, the majority of them appre- 
ciated a few hints how to stndy a poem — questions showing 
them what to look for, suggesting parallels, or stimulating 
thought and imagination. It was understood that any such 
questions were merely typical, illustrative of many others 
which they would doubtless ask themselves, once their minds 
had received the initial impetus. If pupils honestly pre- 
ferred — as a few did — to read the poem over and over again 
until subconsciously they realized its full appeal, they were 
quiie at liberty to do so. I should hate to feel that any future 
reader of this book was forced to "study" the Notes when he 
was inwardly convinced that such study was spoiling his en- 
joyment of the poems. For to some young people — a fortu- 
nate few — poetry comes as naturally as diving does to 
others; and some would rather keep patiently at it for and 
by themselves without paying much attention to the examples 
of others. But the majority of my three-hundred-odd pupils, 
I think, felt that it paid to "keep their eyes open and take 
tips once in a while" — that by learning a few facts and having 
a few ideas suggested to them they taught themselves sooner 
than they otherwise could have to appreciate poetry instinc- 
tively and intelligently. 

On a scorching summer day, the person who does not know 
how to dive looks with mingled awe and envy at the lithe, 
beautifully poised figures, on the raft and the cool, green 
depths below them. Down — down — down they plunge, com- 
ing up again with new exhilaration in their faces and new 
light in their eyes. Many people hesitate as they stand above 
the sparkling "many-voiced" sea of modern verse. But the 
deeper one teaches himself to dive into that sea, the oftener 
he wishes to do it, and the more his mind becomes refreshed 
and strengthened. Who wouldn't be an experienced diver? 



208 NOTES 



SEA-FEVER 

(From Salt-Water Poems and Ballads) 

John Masefield was born in 1874. From childhood he had 
such a love of the sea that his parents apprenticed him, at 
fourteen, to a shipmaster as a cabin boy. Later, he spent 
several years before the mast. Then he wandered on foot 
through various countries. For awhile he worked in New 
York, first in a saloon and then in a factory. Returning to 
England with his mind finally made up to devote himself to 
literature, he worked patiently for over ten years before the 
publication of The Everlasting Mercy (which won the Ed- 
mond de Polignac prize in 1912) made him famous. Since 
then he has published many volumes of verse and plays. Dur- 
ing iha-wa*.. he served with the Red Cross in France and at 
Gallipoli, fitting out a hospital ship at his own expense. He 
has made a lecture tour of the United States. 

For generations, love of the sea has been a characteristic of 
the Englishman. Over a thousand years ago, an Anglo- 
Saxon poet whose name we do not know — and in a way, it 
does not matter, since he vv^as but a voice for many of his 
fellows^composed a long poem called "The Seafarer." A 
few scattered lines from it (Cook and Tinker's translation) 
will show the similarity of feeling : 

' ' The hail flew in showers about me ; and there I heard only 
The roar of the sea, ice-cold waves, and the song of the swan ; 
For pastime the gannet's cry served me ; the kittiwakes' chatter 
For laughter of men ; and for mead-drink the call of the 
sea-mews. ' ' 



NOTES 209 

"Yet the thoughts of my heart now are throbbing 
To test the high streams, the salt waves in tumultuous play, 
Desire in my heart ever urges my spirit to wander 
To seek out the home of the stranger in lands afar oft'." 

"Now my spirit uneasih' turns in die heart's narrow chamber, 
Now wanders forth over the tide, o'er the home of the whale. 
To the end of the earth — and comes back to me. Eager and 

greedy, 
The lone wanderer screams, and resistlessly drives my soul 

onward 
Over the whale-path, over the tracts of the sea." 

On what sort of day do you love the sea best? 



WILD WEATHER 

(From Crack o' Dawn) 

Fannie Stearns Davis (Mrs. Gifford) is a Smith College 
graduate. She has published two books of verse, and con- 
tributes frequently to leading magazines. She lives in Pitts- 
tield, i\Iass. 

Which do you prefer — a windy day near the sea or a windy 
day in the country? What words here give best an idea 
of the onrush and might of the wind ? Do you know a famous 
nineteenth centur}^ poem whieli is full of a man's fierce exul- 
tation in this great force of Nature? 



210 \ { ' NOTES 



0i 




\^xo^ 



HIGH-TIDE 



(From Growing Pains) 




Jean Starr was born in Ohio, 1886. She attended private 
schools in Ohio and New York and took a Columbia University 
extension course. She married Louis Untermeyer (q. v.) in 
1907. She has published one volume of verse, and contributes 
to leading magazines. 

What two ideas about the moon — one scientific, the other 
mythical — are skillfully combined in this poem? 

(The following long note on the difficult subject of free 
verse is not intended "for immediate consumption." In con- 
nection with this poem, it should be read aloud and dis- 
cussed ; blit it should be again referred to whenever other 
poems in free verse are read until the principles and their 
application become quite familiar. It is given here to coun- 
teract, at the start, the very prevalent and equally false notion 
that free verse is nothing but chorpped-up prose, written by 
some one who is too lazy to invent rhymes or preserve meter.) 

Free verse 'is not a lawless form. It is based upon the natu- 
ral cadences of the human voice — that is, the "falls" or 
pauses in speech which are occasioned by the speaker's need to 
breathe, or by his dwelling on certain words for emphasis. 
The contention of free verse writers is that in rhymed and 
metrical poetry these cadences cannot be sufficiently varied 
for the reader to convey exactly the author 's varied emotions. 
To quote John Gould Fletcher (this passage is from the 
preface to Irradiations) : 

"I maintain that poetry is capable of as many gradations in 
cadence as music is in time. We can have a rapid group 
of syllables — what is called a line — succeeded by a slow heavy 




-JtvCH/^^ 



•-^ 



NOTES 211 

one ; like the swift scurrying of the wave and the sullen drag- 
ging of itself away. Or we can gradually increase or decrease 
our time, creating accelerando and rallentando etfects. Or 
we can follow a group of rapid lines with a group of slow 
ones, or a single slow, or vice versa. Finally, we can have a 
perfectly even and unaltered movement throughout, if we de- 
sire to be monotonous. 

"The good poem is that in which all these effects are used 
to conve.y the underlying emotions of its author, and that 
which welds all these emotions into a work of art by the use 
of dominant motif, subordinate themes, proportionate treat- 
ment, repetition, variation, — what in music is called devel- 
opment, reversal of roles, and return. In short, the good 
poem fixes a free emotion, or a free range of emotions, into 
an inevitable and artistic whole." 

From this passage, we see that free verse writers disre- 
gard the arbitrary units of feet, number or quantity of 
syllables in lines, and stanzas. The ul^it_^]>^«l;_ih^^'-p^^^a^rye^ 
is— Lh£ str ophe . ("Strophe" in Greek tragedy meant the 
"turn" or circuit of the altar made by the chorus in the 
pauses between action, and hence the group of lines which 
they recited or chanted while they were making this turn. 
It differs from the stanza in that it has no universally pre- 
scribed length or meter.) Free verse writers, then, mean by 
"strophe" a division corresponding roughly to the para- 
graph in prose. It may be the whole poem or only a part of 
it. The important consideration is that it shall be a perfect 
circle, give the effect of completed harmony. Usually, it does 
this by "returning" upon itself, "like a balanced pendulum" ; 
that is, some thought /or some sound at the end brings one's 
mind back to the thought or sound of the beginning. 

Within this large imit of the strophe, the lines may vary 
tremendously. An ill istration of this idea is found in the 
tyPskts, 1916: 



preface to Some I magi 



© 



)QX*\V. 



n \r.^^, V^r*-^ 



r<> 



212 NOTES 

"Suppose a person were given the task of walking, or 
running, round a large circle, with two minutes given to do 
it in. Two minutes which he would just consume if he walked 
round the circle quietly. But in order to make the task easier 
for him, or harder, as the case may be, he was required to 
complete each half-circle in exactly a minute. No other re- 
strictions were placed upon him. He might dawdle in the 
beginning, and run madly to reach the half-circle mark on 
time, and then complete his task by walking steadily round 
the second half to goal. Or he might leap, and run, and 
skip, and linger in all sorts of ways, making up for slow go- 
ing by fast, and for extra haste by pauses, and vary these 
movements on either lap of the circle as the humor seized him, 
only so that he were just one minute in traversing the first 
half circle, and just one minute in traversing the second." 

Writers of free verse, then, reduce the "mechanics" of 
poetry to one essential — cadence. But it might be added 
that though they regard regularitij of rhyme and meter as a 
hampering non-essential, they fully realize the effectiveness 
of occasional metrical lines and rhyming words irregularly 
placed. All the devices familiar to poets for ages — assonance, 
alliteration, onomatopoeia, etc. — are, of course, their stock in 
trade, used as often as ever Spenser used them. In fact, they 
claim that their free technique enables them to employ the 
"inevitable," the most perfect, word more often than re- 
strictions of rhyme and meter would permit. It is true that 
artists who take this new form seriously have given exquisite 
expression to their ideas; and the crimes which have been cr'->i- 
mitted by others in the name of free verse ought not to preju- 
dice us against this real achievement. 

A very clear and fair estimate of the whole issue between 
free verse and "orthodox" verse is found in Chapter VI of 
Lowes' Convention and Revolt in Poetrif. It should l)e read 
by every one who is interested in this subject. Professor 



NOTES 213 

Lowes' chief point is that since poets of real genius have in 
past ages found it possible to preserve both the small 
rhythms of lines and the larger strophic unit, the poets who 
deliberately forego one of these effects for the sake of the 
other must have very definite compensations to oft'er. Profes- 
sor Perry is anather critic who in Chapter VI of his recent 
book A Study in Poetry,, takes up this vexed question. As 
he points out, it is by no means a new one. 

Quite apart from discussion, there is one real benefit which 
you may receive from studying free verse. It gives splendid 
practice in reading aloud, for the cadences are more delicate 
than those of prose, and less obvious than those of metrical 
verse. The reader has power to make it an instrument of 
mental torture or a thing of beauty. 



SAILOR TOWN 

(From Sailor Town) 

Cicely Fox Smith was born in England toward the close 
of the last century. One of her ancestors was Captain John 
Smith of Virginia. Several years spent on the Pacific Coast 
of Canada gave her a full opportunity to indulge her passion 
for ships and the sea. To quote from her letter : "I wish 
I might truthfully tell you that I was a sea-captain's daugh- 
ter and had sailed with him on all his voyages. That is what 
some of my unknown correspondents have surmised. Also, 
I frequently receive letters from sailormen avIio do not know 
my sex asking if I am not an old shipmate. " 

Miss Smith has published three volumes of verse and three 
novels, Canadian in setting. She is now living in England. 

Have you ever been along the water-front in a fishing center 
like Gloucester or any large harbor city? If you were writing 



214 NOTES 

a poem about it, would you choose the scene in daytime or 
the scene in the evening, as the author has? Of the many 
objects in the little shops, why do you think she picked out the 
ones she did for mention ? 



THE SHIP OF RIO 
(From Peacock Pie) 

Walter de la Mare was born in 1873, and educated at St. 
Paul's Cathedral Choir School. Since 1902 he has written 
five volumes of verse. (Recently, these have been published 
in an American "collected edition" of two volumes.) In 
1910 he won the Edmond de Poligjnac prize for that year. He 
is a very quiet, unworldly man, with an eternally young heart 
and a keen sense of humor. His poems are chiefly of three 
types: child-poems, many of which rival Mother Goose; char- 
acter-studies ; and poems of elusive and mysterious fancy. 

This is one of the first group. It gives equal delight to 
children and to grown-ups. 



OLD ANCHOR CHANTY 

(From Poems with Fables in Prose) 

Herbert Trench is very fond of sea life as the traveler 
knows it. He was born in Ireland, 1865, and educated at 
Haileybury and Oxford. He has held positions of honor on 
the Board of Education, been director of the Haymarket 



'1 ^ 

•2- 



NOTES 215 

Theater, and done much to promote better understanding be- 
tween Great Britain and Italy. He has written poems and 
plays. 

''The Chanty-Man Sings," by William Brown Meloney 
{Everybody's Magazine, August 1915) would be most inter- 
esting to read in connection with this. It gives the words 
and tunes for several famous old chanties — those songs that 
sailors used to sing while they were heaving anchor, hoisting 
yards, or adjusting sails, on the square-rigged ships and 
schooners. The chanty verse consisted of alternate solo and 
chorus lines. Often the leader improvised as he went along. 

When this is read aloud in class, two solo parts should be 
assigned, and all others join in the chorus. 



IRRADIATIONS— III 

(From Irradiations; Sand and Spray) 

John Gould Fletcher was born in Arkansas in 1886. He 
attended Phillips Andover and Harvard. Soon afterwards, 
he went to Europe, remaining six years. Eeturning to Amer- 
ica at the outbreak of the war, he travelled in the West. In 
1916, he went back to England, where he has been living since. 
He has published several volumes of verse which embody in- 
teresting and very "advanced" poetic theories, and has 
translated a good deal of Japanese poetry. 

Mr. Fletcher is one of the so-called ' ' Imagists. ' ' The rules 
which these poets have set for themselves are given below, in 
their owai words. They are taken from the preface to Some 
Imagist Poets, an anthology containing representative verse 
by Amy Lowell, ''H. D." (Hilda Doolittle, now Mrs. Alding- 
ton), John Gould Fletcher, Richard Aldington, F. S. Flint, 
and D. H. Lawrence. Thev are nrefaeed bv the statement : 



216 NOTES 

*' These principles are not new ; they have fallen into desuetude. 
They are the essentials of all great poetry, indeed of all great 
literature." 

"1. To use the language of common speech, but to employ 
always the exact word, not the nearly exact, nor the merely 
decorative word. 

"2. To create new rhythms^ — as the expression of new 
moods and not to copy old rhythms, which merely echo old 
moods. We do not insist upon "free verse" as the only 
method of writing poetry. We fight for it as a principle of 
liberty. We believe that the individuality of a poet may 
often be better expressed in free-verse than in conventional 
forms. In poetry a new cadence means a new idea. 

"3. To allow absolute freedom in the choice of subject. It 
is not good art to write badly of aeroplanes and automobiles, 
nor is it necessarily bad art to write well about the past. We 
believe passionately in the artistic value of modern life, but 
we wish to point out that there is nothing so uninspiring nor 
as old-fashioned as an aeroplane of the year 1911. 

"4. To present an image (hence the name: 'Imagist'). 
We are not a school of painters, but we believe that poetry 
should render particulars exactly and not deal in vague gen- 
eralities, however magnificent and sonorous. It is for this 
reason that we oppose the cosmic poet, who seems to us to 
shirk the responsibilities of his art. 

"5. To produce poetry that is hard and clear, never blurred 
and indefinite. 

"6. Finally, most of us believe that concentration is of the 
very essence of poetry." 

A clear and interesting explanation (with illustrations) 
of these rules may be found in Amy Lowell's Tendencies in 
Modern Amcriran Poetry. 

Plow does this poem show l\Ir. Fletclier to ho an Imagist? 
Does his free verse embody the principles which were laid 
down in the note on "High-Tide"? 



NOTES 217 



CARGOES 



(From Salt-Water Poems and Ballads) 

(For biographical note, refer to "Sea Fever.") 
Occasionally poems come in one flash of inspiration. Mr. 

Masefield is said to have written this in half an hour. 

What idea is suggested by the poem as a whole ? How does 

the intentional anticlimax contribute to this? Which of the 

three pictures is clearest in your mind? 



THE OLD SHIPS 

(From Collected Poems) 

In James. Elroy Flecker 's untimely death English poetry 
suffered a great loss. Born in 1884, he died of consumption 
when only thirty. He was an Oxford man. He spent four 
years of his life in the Consular Service, holding posts at 
Constantinople, Smyrna, and Beyrout. He married a Greek 
girl. He loved the East, especially for its picturesqueness 
and its age-old civilization. 

How long ago did "the pirate Genoese" do battle? What 
did the "drowsy ship of some yet older day" look like? How 
old might it possibly be? Do you remember the wooden horse 
of Troy ? Who lived on the island of ^aea? 



218 NOTES 



SING A SONG 0' SHIPWRECK 

(From Salt-Water Poems and Ballads) 

(For biographical note, refer to "Sea Fever.") 

This was written while Mr. Masefield was a very young man, 

still serving before the mast. 

Do you like the poem's being written in dialect? What 

details give vividness? humor? What shows that the sailor 

is not so callous as he may seem? Should you have liked a 

full account of the rescue ? 



PIRATE TREASURE 

(From Heart of New England) 

Abbie Farwell Brown still lives in her native city — Boston, 
Massachusetts. She is a graduate of Radcliffe College, and has 
traveled much abroad. She has written many books for chil- 
dren and short stories, as well as verse. 

Though the age of pirates is past, few people can think long 
of the sea without thinking of a "Jolly Roger." As the 
lady found out, distance lends enchantment, and yet — do you 
think she wholly repented her adventuresomeness ? 

Do you know "The Skeleton in Armor," by Longfellow? 

These verses would be splendid to set to music. 



NOTES 219 



FOG 



(From Chicago Poems) 

Carl Sandburg was born in 1878. Forced to leave school 
at thirteen, he worked at six or seven trades before enlisting 
for service in the Spanish-American War. After his return, 
he put himself through Lombard College, then roamed the 
IMiddle West as a newspaperman, a salesman, and an organizer 
for the Social-Democratic party of Wisconsin. From 1910- 
1912 he w^as secretarj^ to the mayor of Milwaukee. He is now 
an editorial writer on the Chicago Daily News, and a lecturer 
on poetry, as well as one of the leading poets in America. 
His three volumes of verse show a steady increase in power 
to handle a very free technique. He uses no standard meters 
whatever. 

The whole point of this ''handful" is the unusual com- 
parison. What do you think of it? 



BROOKLYN BRIDGE AT DAWN 

(From New Poems) 

Richard Le Gallienne was bom in Liverpool, 1866, and 
educated at Liverpool College. He was engaged in business 
for seven years, but abandoned it in favor of literature. For 
about fifteen years he has lived in the United States. He has 
written much, chiefly essays and poems. 

Since this is the first sonnet in the collection, and there are 
many others, make sure you remember what a sonnet is — in 
respect to length, divisions, transitions of thought and vari- 
ous rhyme-schemes. In spite of the fact that it is an old 



220 NOTES 

and much-used form and very difficult, it maintains tremen- 
dous popularity. 

You would find it interesting to compare this with a famous 
sonnet by Wordsworth, ' ' On Westminster Bridge. ' ' What is 
the idea common to both? What additional thought is found 
in the closing lines of Mr. Le Gallienne's? Which picture do 
you think has more of the elusive something which we call 
beauty ? 



EEN NAPOLI 

(From Carmina) 

Thomas Augustine Daly was born in 1871. After studying 
at Fordham University, he took up newspaper work, which has 
been his vocation ever since. He has been general manager 
for the Catholic Standard and Times, editorial writer on the 
Philadelphia Record, and associate editor of the Evening 
Ledger. He is a member of the American Press Humorists, 
and — as that implies — a very witty lecturer and writer. His 
five volumes of verse have been extremely popular. Most of 
the poems are in Italian or Irish dialect. 

How often do you think of immigrants as homesick? 
Through which one of the senses is poignant remembrance apt 
to come? 



CITY ROOFS 

(From Today and Tomorrow) 

"Charley" Towne is very popular in New York because 
of his genial, whole-hearted interest in everything and 



NOTES 221 

everybody. He was born in Kentucky (1877) but says he 
could never be happy long awa}^ from New York. He has 
been an editor on various magazines, has written words for 
songs by well-known musicians, and published two volumes 
of verse. 

Have you been up to the top of the ^Metropolitan tower, 
or seen a similar view of any great city! Does the thought 
of the poem seem natural? depressing? AYould the thought 
of the last stanza occur to you ? Do you believe there are 
more bad people in the world than good ones? 

BROADWAY 

(From Poems and Ballads) 

Hermann Hagedorn was born in 1882. He graduated from 
Harvard in 1907, and from 1909-11 was instructor in Eng- 
lish there. He first achieved reputation through his plays; 
since, he has written poems, translations, and fiction. He 
was one of the founders of the Vigilantes (1916) and lately 
has been on the Executive Committee of the Roosevelt Mem- 
orial Association. He not only owns, but runs, a farm in 
Connecticut. 

What three things about the Broadway evening crowds sug- 
gest the comparison? Why should they be called "far" when 
the writer was probably jostling elbows with them? Does the 
figure of speech become too involved ? 

THE PEDDLER 

(From Poems and Ballads) 

(For biographical note, refer to preceding poem.) 

Point out all the difit'erences you see between this poem 



> 



222 NOTES 

and "Broadway." Should you think they were by the same 
author? Which do you like better? 



ROSES IN THE SUBWAY 

(From Poems) 

Dana Burnet was born in 1888, in Cincinnati. He studied 
law at Cornell, but soon turned to newspaper work. From 
1911-1918 he was with the New York Evening Sun. (In the 
winter of 1917-18 they sent him to France as a special 
writer.) He now devotes himself almost entirely to his 
writing. He has published much fiction, as well as poetry. 

What line shows you that the roses mean a great deal to 
the girl ? Why do they ? What might have been the thoughts 
of some other fellow-passengers? 



a^^'"- 



^ 



THE FACTORIES 
\\^<, (From Factories) 



Margaret Widdemer was born. in. Pennsylvania. She was 
educated at home, and attended Drexel Institute Library 
School. Since 1912 she has contributed to well-known maga- 
zines, writing fiction and essays as well as verse. In 1919 
she married Robert Haven Schauffler. She has recently 
brought out an anthology of ghost-poems, called The Haunted 
Hour, which vou might find interesting. 



NOTES 223 

How far do you think each individual is responsible for 
general social abuses ? The last few years have wrought great 
changes in conditions of labor ; is there still room for com- 
plaint ? 

PRAYERS OF STEEL 

(From Cornhuskers) 

(For biographical note, refer to "Fog.") 

This same theme — the fearful beauty and the big meaning 
of a huge industry — is to be found in the title poem of Mr. 
Sandburg's new volume, Smoke and Steel. 

What in the poem shows the author's vivid imagination? 
His interest in a new social order? His aspiration? 

Several critics have said that in structure this reminded 
one of the Psalms. If you doubt it, look up Psalm 100, and 
write it out in ten lines of free verse. You will be astonished 
at the similarity. The Psalms, you know, were poetry — 
intended to be sung — and our Bible translators kept them 
wonderfully rhythmic. They are prose only in form. 



ELLIS PARK 

(From Poetry; A Magazine of Verse) 

Helen Hoyt was born in Connecticut, and educated at 
private schools. She graduated from Barnard College in 
1909. Since then, her home has been in the Middle AVest. 
She taught for awhile, then worked in an office (near Ellis 
Park), -and finally, as a secretary, came into the office of 
Poetry. In 1918 she was' made an associate editor. She has 
contributed to many magazines. 

Ellis Park is in Chicago. 

What is the most appealing thing about this poem-.? 



224 NOTES 



THE PARK 

(From Poems) 

(For biog-raphical note, refer to "Roses in the Subway.") 
Do you see any difference between the diction of this poem 
and that of "Roses in the Subway," or that of the preceding 
poem by Miss Hoyt ? What do ' ' marge, " " heart of Arcady, ' ' 
"burgeoning" mean? In what sense has this poem a wider 
application than the preceding one? 

AT TWILIGHT 

(From You and I) 

Americans owe a debt of gratitude to Harriet Monroe for 
the interest which she has stimulated in poetry. She is the 
founder and editor of Poetry, a Magazine of Verse-, which 
has given encouragement and opportunity to many young 
American poets. She is also the author of several volumes of 
verse, and edited, with Alice Corbin Henderson, an inter- 
esting anthology. The New Poetry. She was born and has 
always lived in Chicago. 

The city is Chicago, but it might be almost any great city 
on a rainy night. Should you call the picture mainly literal, 
mainly suggestive, or mainly imaginative? 

IN LADY STEEET 

(From Poems) 

John Drinkwater was born in 1882. He has published 
essays, poems, and plays, and has long been interested in 
problems of the stage. He is general manager of the Binning- 



NOTES 225 

ham Repertory Theater. He became famous over-night with 
the i^roduction of Ahraham Lincoln, which had an amazing^ 
run in London before its huge success here. He is to make 
a lecture tour of the States this winter. 

Do you think that poetry is poetry when it describes ugly 
things? (This question has been debated for hundreds of 
years.) What, of course, is the point of the ugliness here? 
Should you judge that most of Mr. Drinkwater's poems were 
about the city or about the country? 



THE BAREEL ORGAN 

(From Collected Poems) 

Alfred Noj'es, who was born in 1880, is an Englishman by 
birth, and an Oxford graduate. Recentlj^, however, he has 
spent much time in the United States, not only lecturing, but 
occupying a professor's chair at Princeton University, so that 
many Americans are coming to look upon him as an "adopted" 
poet of their own. (Perhaps he would not regard this as a 
compliment!) During the war he served for a time in the 
British Foreign Office, and has been created C. B. E. He has 
written essays and fiction, but the bulk of his work is poetry, 
in which line popular opinion ranks him with Kipling and 
Mase field. 

The street-organ, at least in America, will soon be a thing 
of the past. (Why?) Where, then, may you watch the 
same miracle of the effect of music on different people? 
Would the effect on these men and women be the same at any 
time of day? (Apropos of the "rowing-man," that sport 
has always been one of Mr. Noyes' hobbie,>.) Why does the 
poet introduce so much repetition, and so many variations of 



226 NOTES 

a few ideas? Is the "lilac time" song intended to be an imi- 
tation of the average ragtime ditty, or is it too good for 
that? Why has the poem appealed so strongly to hundreds 
of readers? 



THE GREEN INN 

(From Scrihner's Magazine) 

Theodosia Garrison Faulks was born in Newark, 1874, and 
educated at private schools. She was married in 1898, and 
again in 1911. She has published three volumes of poems, 
and contributed to leading magazines. 

An extended figure like this is hard to carry through with- 
out a slip. What parts of it do you think are most suc- 
cessfully done ? Notice, too, the rather unusual rhyme-scheme. 



THE FEET OF THE YOUNG MEN 

{From Rudyard Kipling's Verse — Inclusive Edition) 

There are few parts of the world which Rudyard Kipling 
has not seen. He was born in Bombay, 1865 ; went to England 
to be educated; returned to India and wrote for the Anglo- 
Indian press from 1882-1889; then traveled in China, Japan, 
America, Africa, and Australasia. For some time he lived 
in Vermont. (He had already become so famous that while 
there he used to be annoyed by autograph fiends, who would 
even buy his checks, given to local dealers, for the sake of 
the signature !) Since then, he has made his home in England. 
In 1907, he won the Nobel Prize for Literature. His work is 
astonishing, not only for its vigor, but for its versatility. His 
poems fill an enormous volume (Inclusive Edition, 1885-1918). 



NOTES 227 

He is an acknowledged master of short story writing, whether 
the stories be of Anglo-Indian life {Plain Tales from the 
Hills), children's stories (the Jungle Books and Just So 
Stories) or tales of ghosts and terror {The Phantom Rickshaw, 
At the End of the Passage, The Mark of the Beast). Of his 
novels, Kim is already a classic. 

Which call of the Red Gods do you hear most clearly? 
Where would you go if it were the one given in stanza III "? 
in stanza IV ? What is meant by ' ' 'Send your road is clear 
before you?" Why do you think the poet chose the Indian 
figure of speech as a sort of background for his vivid pictures ? 



TO THE THAWING WIND 

(From A Boy's Will) 

Robert Frost, who is now forty-six years old, was born in 
San Francisco, but his education and life has been in New 
England, and all his affection centers on its hillside farms, 
its stone walls, its taciturn, conservative villagers. He has 
been a farmer himself, also. He has taught a great deal — 
grade school, academy, normal school, and college. From 
1912-15 he was in England. He is now professor of English 
at Amherst. He spends much time on his farm at Fran- 
conia, N. H. 

Why is the poet anxious for the thawing wind to come? 
Have you ever seen a window "flow" during a hard rain? 
WTiat is meant by — 

"leave the sticks 
Like a hermit's crucifix"? 

When you read the poem, take particular care to bring 
out the humorous climax. 



228 NOTES 



MISTER HOP-TOAD 

(From Songs o' Cheer) 

People in Indiana are so proud of James Whitcomb Riley 
that they have made his birthday a state holiday. He was 
born in 1853, and died in 1916. He tried sign-painting, act- 
ing, and newspaper work before he devoted himself to litera- 
ture. ]\Iuch of his verse is in the Hoosier dialect, but his 
"straight English" verses, like "An Old Sweetheart of iMine" 
have also been much quoted. Of his many volumes, The 
Raggedy Man and The Little Orphant Annie Book are two 
that you would like. 

Do you know Robert Burns' poem "To a Mouse"? If 
you don't, hunt it up and compare it with this. There are 
some interesting similarities, and some interesting differences 
which are due to the different nationalities, times and tem- 
peraments of the poets. 

One word may puzzle you. "Mind" in the 3d verse means 
"remember," in this dialect. 



TO A POET (by spring) 

(From Baubles) 

Carolyn Wells — Mrs. Hadwin Houghton, since 1918 — has 
given people many an hour of delight with her nonsense poems 
and parodies. Look over sometimes A Parody Anthology, A 
Satire Anthology, and A Whimsey Anthology. She has also 
written many children's books. She has been engaged in lit- 
erary work since 1900. 



NOTES . 229 

You know the conventional type of "Spring is here" poem. 
It is a case where "so much has been said, and so well 
said" that the goddess's protest seems quite natural. What 
did Chaucer say about "Aprile with his shoures sote"? What 
are some of Shakespeare's spring songs? Herrick's? 



MAY IS BUILDING HER HOUSE 

(From The Lonely Dancer) 

(For biographical note, refer to "Brooklyn Bridge at 

Dawn.") 

• 

Do you think this poem would draw a protest from sated 
"Spring," or is it a trifle unusual? 
What does "arras" mean? 
Which lines do you like the least? The best? 



A MOUNTAIN GATEWAY 

(From April Airs) 

Bliss Carman is a native of New Brunswick. Born in 
1861, he received his education there, at the University of 
Edinburgh, and at Harvard. He read law two years, traveled, 
and was in editorial work. Since 1894 he has devoted him- 
self to literature, and has brought out twenty-seven small 
volumes of poetry, April Airs being the most recent. 

My particular "mountain gateway" is in New Hampshire. 
Where is yours ? 

Do you remember about Daphne? If you do not, look up 
the story in Gayley's Classic Myths. 



230 NOTES 



HAYMAKING 

(From Poems) 

Edward Thomas — Welsh, Spanish and English by descent — 
was born in 1878. He met death on the battlefield of Arras, 
April 9, 1917. In his thirty-nine years he had published 
essays, reviews, biographies, and one volume of verse. The 
latter is dedicated to Robert Frost, whom Mr. Thomas met 
while he was in England, and whose work he admired. 

In no two periods of English literature have poets described 
the beauty of country life and scenery in quite the same way. 
Perhaps you remember Milton's description of a summer noon 
in the country: 

''Hard by a cottage chimney smokes 
From betwixt two aged oaks. 
Where Corydon and Thyrsis met 
Are at their savory dinner set 
Of herbs and other country messes 
Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses ; 
And then in haste her bower she leaves 
With Thestylis to bind the sheaves 
Or, if the earlier season lead. 
To the tanned haj'cock in the mead." 

At first reading, the conventional pastoral names familiar to 
Milton's readers make the lines sound artificial to us. Yet 
doubtless Milton was remembering with keen appreciation just 
the sort of scene described more fully here ; and three hundred 
years hence, some poet will be mirroring the beautj^ of a 
similar scene according to the fashion of his age. Just at 
present we are favoring realistic detail, carefully observed. 



NOTES 231 

but touched with unexpected bits of imagination. Point out 
vivid instances in this poem. 



AN INDIAN SUMMER DAY ON THE 
PRAIRIE 

(Prom The Congo) 

If Nicholas Vachel Lindsay could be persuaded to write an 
autobiography, it would make fascinating reading. So far as 
facts go — he was born in Illinois, 1879, educated at Hiram 
College, Chicago Art Institute, and New York School of Art ; 
lectured for the Y. M. C. A, and stumped for 'the Anti-Saloon 
League; in 1912 walked from Illinois to New Mexico, dis- 
tributing rhymes in return for a night's lodging, and speaking 
in behalf of "The Gospel of Beauty." For the last five 
years, he has lectured and recited his poetry in many parts 
of the United States, and spends three-quarters of every year 
at home writing. You would like "The Congo" and "The 
Chinese Nightingale," both too long to reprint in this volume. 
The Village Magazine (privately printed) contains dozens of 
symbolic and beautiful illustrations for poems. 

In what sense is this poem really built around the title? 
Does the imagery interfere with the accurateness of the 
description ? 



GREETING 

(From Collected Poems) 

"William Henry Davies was born in 1870, of Welsh parents. 
He was apprenticed to the picture-frame-making trade, but 



232 NOTES 

after his term was over left England and became a tramp in 
America, for six years. Ketiirning to England, he made sev- 
eral walking tours as a peddler of notions and as a street 
singer. His first volume of poems appeared when he was 
thirty-four. Since then, he has published seven other volumes, 
which have been collected and printed in one American 
edition. 

What is it about this poem that almost makes you wish you 
were a tramp yourself? 



A VAGABOND SONG 

(From 3Iore Songs of Vac/ahondia) 

The note on Bliss Carman will be found under "A Mountain 
Gateway." This poem is from the second of a series of three 
small volumes which were written in collaboration with 
Kichard Hovey. He was a journalist, actor, dramatist, poet, 
and lecturer who died in 1900, when he was only thirty-six. 

Do you think autumn "sets the gypsy blood astir" more 
than spring? 

Would this poem be good to set to music — say, for a Boys' 
Glee Club? 



THREE PIECES ON THE SMOKE OF 
AUTUMN 

(From Cornhuskers) 

(For biographical note, refer to "Fog.") 

Why do you think the poet grouped these three short pieces 



NOTES 233 

together? How does the predominant feeling here differ 
from that in the preceding autumn poem? In the second 
piece, why is the passage in parentheses inserted ? All of this 
is free verse — but what devices as old as poetry itself are 
skilfully employed? 



GOD'S WORLD 

(From Renascence and Other Poems) 

Edna St. Vincent Millay achieved her reputation very 
young. She was born in Maine, in 1892, and is a graduate 
of Vassar College. Her most famous long poem, "Renas- 
cence, " was written when she was nineteen. Since, she has 
contributed to many magazines, and has a new volume of verse 
in preparation. 

Here is still a third way in which the beauty of autumn 
affects people. Do you think it is more typical of a woman 
than of a man? 



AFTER APPLE-PICKING 

(From Mountain Interval) 

(For biographical note, refer to "To the Thawing Wind.") 
In that strange land of delicious drowsiness through which 
we pass to the sea of sleep, conscious remembrance becomes 
twisted into images half-real and half-fantastic. What shows 
the gradual blurring of the apple-picker's mind? Is the 
picture of the day in the orchard still fairly clear? Do you 



234 NOTES 

like the concluding fancy? Notice the apparent carelessness 
of rhyme and meter. Does it satisfy your ear? 



BROTHER BEASTS 

(From Wraiths and Realities) 

Cale Young Rice is a native of Kentucky. He was born in 
1872 and educated at Cumberland University and Harvard. 
He has written many poetic dramas and poems. His wife is 
the author of Mrs. Wiggs of the Cahhape Patch, which was 
published the year before their marriage. 

In what ways is this poem rather unusual? • 

Notice that there are few actual rhjTnes, and yet each stanza 
gives the effect of being much rhymed. How do you account 
for it ? 



BIRCHES 

(From North of Boston) 

(For biographical note, refer to "To the Thawing Wind.'') 
Did you ever think of trying this sport yourself? Which 

page of the poem do you think is most "poetical"? 

Read the first page and consider it, for a minute, simply 

as blank verse. How does it differ from blank verse you have 

already known? 



NOTES 235 



HIGHMOUNT 



(From These Times) 

Louis Untermeyer is a man of many interests — by vocation 
a designer and manufacturer of jewelry, by avocation a poet, 
translator, parodist, lecturer, editor and critic. He was born 
in 1885, was educated in New York and has always lived there. 
One very enjoyable volume of his parodies is referred to 
under "The Sunken Garden." His two recently published 
anthologies, Modern American Poetry and Modern British 
Poetry, are ones which you would like. 

What did the Psalmist say about the hill?;, long, long ago? 

Hdfr does this poem differ from "A Mountain Gateway"? 



A VIGNETTE 

(From Collected Poems) 

Robert Bridges has been the poet laureate of England since 
1913. (What great poets have formerly held this office?) He 
was born in 1844. He is an Oxford man, and for years was 
a physician by profession. He has written various plays, 
poems and critical essays; his latest volume of verse, October 
and Other Lyrical Poems, (1920) has been highly praised by 
critics in England. 

What trace of the older "poetic diction" do you notice here? 
Is the poem modern in spirit? What interpretation is here 
given of the beauty of Nature? 



236 NOTES 



THE WORLD'S MISER 

(From Poems) 

Theodore Maynard, though as yet only thirty, has had a 
checkered career. Born in India, the son of a missionary, 
he studied first for the Congregational ministry and then for 
the Unitarian pulpit; finally he became a Roman Catholic. 
He spent two years in America, where, owing to unforeseen 
emergencies, he worked as a factory hand, a bill poster, a 
book canvasser, and a hand on a cattle boat. Soon after re- 
turning to England in 1911, he began to write poetry, and 
from 1916 on has' been making a reputation for himself, being 
a, lecturer and critic as well as a poet. •• - 

I recently heard a very sweet and religious but rather 
narrow-minded old lady say that she thought this poem was 
sacrilegious. Do you see why she thought so? What lines of 
the poem show unmistakably the love and deep reverence which 
lie behind the odd conception? 



GOOD COMPANY 

(From Blue Smoke) 

Karle Wilson Baker was born in Arkansas, 1878 ; was edu- 
cated at Little Rock Academy and the University of Chicago ; 
married in 1907. She has published only one volume of verse, 
but has contributed stories, essays, and poems to various lead- 
ing magazines, and has in preparation two nonsense fairy 
books for children. 



NOTES 237 

Why is the last line italicized? Which line do you think 
gives the prettiest picture? 



IRRADIATIONS— X 

(From Irradiations; Sand and Spray) 

(For biographical note, refer to III from Irradiations.) 
Is the odd image justified? Is it consistently carried 

through ? What is a howdah ? 

(Mr. Fletcher has long felt the influence of Oriental art 

and literature,) 



1 

TREES 

(From Poems, Essays arid Letters) 

Joyce Kilmer was a young American soldier-poet whose 
death will long be mourned. He was born in New Jersey, 
1886 ; graduated from Columbia in 1908 ; taught school and 
then became a newspaper man. He was connected longest with 
the New York Sunday Times. On America's declaration of 
war, he enlisted immediately as a private. Officially he was a 
sergeant, but was acting as adjutant when he was killed, on 
July 30, 1918. 

Why has this little poem been so much admired and so 
widely quoted? Do you personally prefer this or the pre- 
ceding one? 



238 NOTES 



NIGHT-PIECE 

(From The Old Huntsman) 

An interesting slietch of Siegfried Sassoon's work and per- 
sonality, written by his friend Robert Nichols, forms a preface 
to his second volume. Counter -Attack. Briefly: Mr. Sassoon 
is just over thirty ; was educated at Marlborough and Christ- 
church (Oxford) ; served throughout the war as captain in the 
Royal Welsh Fusiliers, both in France and Palestine, where 
he received the M. C. ; and since then has been writing and 
lecturing, having made a tour of the United States in 1920. 

He is best known as a poet of the war. Why, then, should 
this earlier poem be included in this collection? What are 
fauns? Dryads? What vowel, skilfully used throughout, 
somehow gives the effect of night noises in the woods? Do 
you remember the "blue meager hag" passage in Comusf 



THE FINAL SPURT 

(From Reynard the Fox) 

(For biographical note, refer to "Sea Fever.") 
These seventy-eight lines are really the climax of the long 
narrative poem which tells the story of a whole day's thrilling 
fox-hunt. The fox has shaken of£ his pursuers twice, but this 
time he seems doomed. After reading this, you surely will 
want to know whether the horses too, jumped the hedge, and 
whether Re^niard finally escaped. Get a copy of the book and 
read the conclusion. It is rather unexpected, in tliat it sat- 



NOTES 239 

isfies both our sympathy for the hunted fox and our sympathy 
for his pursuers. For although we, as Americans, have been 
bred to consider fox-hunting a cruel sport — a scruple which 
rarel^^ occurs to an Englishman — as we follow Mr. IVlase- 
field's huntsmen and horses and dogs throughout the poem^ 
we grow so fond of them, and so excited with them that we 
are ready to forgive their almost prayerful profanity and 
should feel really disappointed if they had their long day's 
chase for nothing. 

THE HORSE THIEF 

(From Burglars of the Zodiac) 

"William Rose Benet was born in 1886, educated at Albany 
Academy and Yale. Before the war he brought out three 
volumes of verse, and was assistant editor of the Century 
Magazine. After his honorable discharge from the Air Ser- 
vice, he went into the advertising business, then resumed his 
literary career, publishing Burglars of the Zodiac. He is now 
Associate Editor of the Literary Review (New York Evening 
Post). 

How do you know that only a lover of ho-rses could have 
written this poem? What makes it different from any other 
poem about horses that you have ever read? Why is it a 
good specimen of the type called "dramatic monologue?" 

Bellerophon rode the winged horse Pegasus. 

Sagittarius, "the archer," (sometimes represented as a 
Centaur, in older charts) is one of the constellations and a 
sign of the Zodiac. The idea of the Zodiac originated with the 
Babylonians, who not only na'ned stars and planets after their 
gods, but positively identified the two. 



240 NOTES 

THE RETURN 

(From Collected Poems) 

"Wilfrid Wilson Gibson was born in 1878. In his early- 
thirties he was a social worker, living in the East End of 
London. During part of the war, he served — quite charac- 
teristically, as a private — in the British Army. In 1917, he 
made a lecture tour of the United States. He has written a 
dozen small volumes of verse, most of which have been col- 
lected in one large volume. Some of the best verses are war- 
poems ; the others deal with "the short and simple annals 
of the poor." 

What is the unexpected twist at the end? Why is this 
suggestion worse than the one which probably occurred to 
you — that the boy might be killed? 

THE ROAD OF THE REFUGEES 

(From The Sad Years) 

Dora Sigerson was a very sensitive, gifted young Irish 
writer, a member of a family who were prominent socially 
and intellectually, and actively interested in Irish politics. 
She married Mr. Clement Shorter in 1897. She lived after- 
wards in England, but was always passionately devoted to 
Ireland, and worry over the situation there doubtless hastened 
her death in January, 1918. She had already suffered much 
from the tragedy of the Great War. 

If you did not know, how could y^ou guess that this poem 
was written by a woman ? Which one of your senses is par- 
ticularly affected by reading the poem? By what poetic de- 
vice is this effect accomplished ? What is there rather unusual 
about the meter? 



NOTES 241 



THE BOMBARDMENT 

(From Me7i, Women, and Ghosts) 

Amy Lowell was born in 1874, of a wealthy and distin- 
guished Massachusetts family. She was educated at private 
schools, and has traveled widely. An interesting and sig- 
nificant feature of her poetic career is that she spent years in 
learning her craft before attempting to publish a single 
poem. They paid. Since 1912 she has published five books 
of verse, two books of literary criticism, and many essays, and 
has become widely known for her radical yet soundly defended 
poetic theories. It would seem as if there were few experi- 
ments left for her to try. She has put free verse on a sound 
critical basis, and has gone a step farther in her "polyphonic 
prose" pieces, of which this is an example. 

This is what Miss Lowell says about "polyphonic prose" in 
her Tendencies in Modern American Poetry: 

" 'Polyphonic prose' is not a prose form, although being 
printed as prose many people have found it difficult to un- 
derstand this. It is printed in that manner for convenience, 
as it changes its character so often, with every wave of 
emotion, in fact. The word 'polyphonic' is its keynote. 
'Polyphonic' means 'many-voiced' and the form is so called 
because it makes use of all the 'voices' of poetry, viz.: 
meter, vers libre, assonance, alliteration, rhyme, and return. 
It employs every form of rhythm, even prose rhythm at times, 
but usually holds no particular one for long. It is an ex- 
ceedingly difficult form to write, as so much depends upon the 
poet's taste. The rhymes may come at the ends of the 
cadences, or may appear in close juxtaposition to each other. 



242 NOTES 

or may be only distantly related. It is an excellent medium 
for dramatic portrayal, for stories in scenes, as it permits of 
great vividness of presentation. ' ' 

First of all, read The Bomhardment throush aloud at least 
twice. By that time, your ear will have told you that this is 
no prose, even though it is written as such. You must have 
noticed many cases of assonance, alliteration, rhyme and re- 
turn. Pick out a few instances of each. Read it again, try- 
ing especially now to pick out phrases which swing into regu- 
lar meter for an instant. You can try all sorts of inter- 
esting tests on it, if you have time. But don't neglect to read 
it aloud once more as a whole, not stopping to think about any 
of the poetic devices. Subconsciously, this time, you will find 
your ear satisfied, and you will be free to notice the wonder- 
ful succession of pictures. 



THE OLD HOUSES OF FLANDERS 

(From On Heaven and Poems Written on Active Service) 

Ford Madox Hueffer was born in 1873, the grandson of the 
famous English painter Ford Madox Brown. His father was 
German, but had an intense hatred of Prussianism. It is not 
surprising, therefore, that he immediately sought a commis- 
sion in the British Army during the war, although he was over 
age, and was abandoning a prosperous literary career. He 
was the first editor of The Enf/lish Bcvieiv, and has written 
fiction, essays, and biography as well as poetry. 

How does this poem differ from the preceding one? What 
is rather unusual about the conception? Is the strictly im- 
personal tone elf ective ? 



NOTES 24c 



RHEIMS CATHEDRAL— 1914 

(From Afternoons of April) 

Grace Hazard Conklino; graduated from Smith College in 
1899, and afterwards studied music and languages at Heidel- 
berg and Paris. She was married in 1905. She has been in- 
structor and professor in the English Department at Smith 
since 1914. She has spent several years in Mexico. 

Word of the havoc wrought upon Rheims Cathedral came 
like the news of a friend's death to those who knew and loved 
the magnificent building, with its age-old beauty of detail. 
For whom does that beauty still exist? Of what lines in // 
Penseroso do lines 9-12 remind you? Do you know Words- 
worth's sonnet "On King's Chapel, Cambridge"? 



THE OLD SOLDIER 

(From Flower of Youth) 

Katherine Tynan (Mrs. Hinkson) was born in Dublin and 
educated in a Drogheda convent. Her first volume of verse 
was published in 1885. Since then, she has brought out many 
more volumes, fiction as well as poetry. She did much phil- 
anthropic work during the war, and gave her two sons to 
the British Army. 

This poem, evidently, wa.s written upon the death of the 
"great Captain." Do you like the thought? Do you like 
the very concrete form given to the idea of God's tender care 
for His children? 



244 NOTES 



FUNK 



(From Rhymes of a Bed Cross Man) 

Robert W. Service, who is now forty-seven, is English by 
birth, Scotch by education, Canadian, American, and "citizen 
of the world" b}^ experience. He has farmed, traveled, and 
worked in banks and on newspapers. He spent eight years in 
the Yukon, and much of his poetry concerns this wonderful 
land. He is an ardent motorist, and through the Great War 
drove a Red Cross ambulance. 

Service has been called a disciple of Kipling. Does this 
poem show you why? What are the most vivid lines? The 
finest ? What is suggested by the steady beat of the last line 
in each stanza? 

THE DEVOUT HIGHLANDER 

(From Songs of the Shrapnel Shell) 

Captain Cyril Morton Home was one of the English soldier- 
poets who gave his life. He was tr.ying to rescue a wounded 
soldier in front of the trenches when a shrapnel shell burst 
overhead (Jan. 27, 1916). He was only twenty-nine. 

How does this poem show that Captain Home had a de- 
licious sense of humor as well as a thorough understanding of 
Scotch characteristics 1 

THE SPIRES OF OXFORD 

(From The Spires of Oxford) 

Winifred M. Letts was born in 1887, in Ireland. She has 
always been much interested in Irish peasant life ; in fact, an 



NOTES 245 

article in the Dublin Review called her ''a poet of the 
streets." She served as a nurse at base hospitals during the 
Great War, and that experience resulted in a vohime of war 
poems, of which this is the best known. Besides verse, she has 
written novels, and books for children. 

What pictures do you find here of the peace and beauty of 
Oxford? About how old are some of "the hoary colleges"? 
Should the sacrifice made by these men be appreciated any 
more than that made by others ? Do you know the old English 
carol of which the last stanza gives an echo? 



THE SOLDIER 



(From Collected Poems) 

Rupert Brooke was a poet of very great promise. He was 
born in 1887 ; educated at Rugby and Cambridge. He studied 
in Munich and traveled on the Continent; in 1913-1914 he 
made a trip to the South Seas, via the United States and 
Canada. He enlisted immediately on the outbreak of the war 
and was first sent to Antwerp. A few months later he sailed 
for the Dardanelles (with the British Mediterranean Expe- 
ditionary Force), but never reached there, dying from blood- 
poisoning on April 23, 1915. His grave is on the island of 
Scyros. 

The sonnet-sequence called "1914" is better known than 
anything else of Brooke's, and of the five sonnets, this one is 
most often quoted. Do you see why it has been so highly 
praised ? Which do you like better, the octave or the sestet ? 



246 NOTES 



I HAVE A RENDEZVOUS WITH DEATH 

(From Poems) 

Alan Seeger was born in 1888. He was educated at various 
Eastern public and private schools and at Harvard. Soon 
after, he sailed for Paris, where he studied several years, 
until the war broke out. He immediately enlisted in tlie 
Foreign Legion of France, and served not quite two years, be- 
ing killed in action on July 4, 1916. 

Alan Seeger 's name is often linked with Rupert Brooke's. 
They were both young, they 'both loved life tremendously, and 
they gave it up unhesitatingly. Each, too, had a strong pre- 
sentiment of his approaching death. 

Notice the contrasts here, pointed by the same constantly 
recurring thought. 



IN FLANDERS FIELDS 

(From In Flanders Fields) 

John McCrae was a Canadian, born in 1872. He took both 
his A. B. and his M. D. at the University of Toronto, finishing 
in 1898. During 1899-1900 he served in South Africa and 
spent the rest of his life in med'cal praetjce, for which he was 
exceptionally gifted. He enlisted immediately on the out- 
break of the war. After a few months at the front, he was 
sent back to No. 3 General Hospital at Boulogne, with the 
rank of Lieutenant Colonel. His three years of tireless 
service there doubtless lessened his power to resist an attack 
of pneumonia, which caused his death in Januar.v, 1918. 



NOTES 247 

Why is this poem more familiar to the average reader than 
any other poem of the Great AVar? Can you determine why 
it is so musical ? (In this connection, you might study the first 
and third stanzas of "The Solitary Reaper," by Wordsworth, 
where the devices and efit'ect are much the same. How does 
the unrhymed line in this poem help it still further?) In 
form, the poem is a "rondeau," a difficult and beautiful 
metrical pattern first used by French poets. 



THE DEAD TO THE LIVING 

(From The New World) 

Laurence Binyon was born in 1869, and educated at St. 
Paul's School and Oxford. Since 1898 he has held various 
offices of trust and honor in the British Museum. He lec- 
tured in the U. S. A. in 1912 and 1914. During the war, hri 
worked in a hospital in France, and as a volunteer in the 
anti-aircraft service. 

Why do you think it is that this poem dealing with almost 
exactly the same theme as "In Flanders Fields" has not had 
the same popularity? In what sense has this poem a wider 
and a deeper thought ? 



COUNTER-ATTACK 

(From Counter-Attack and Other Poems) 

(For biographical note, refer to "Night-Piece.") 
This illustrates a kind of war verse which Sassoon and some 
other young poets have insisted should be written and should 



248 NOTES 

be read. Do you understand why tliey thought so? Do you 
think, on the whole, it is more or less effective than any of 
the five preceding poems? 



NOON (I FROM ^'BATTLE") 

(From Ardours and Endurances) 

Robert Nichols was one of those who left ''the shaven lawns 
of Oxford" and he came very near finding the 'bloody 
sod." An undergraduate of twenty-one, he enlisted imme- 
diately in 1914 and served as lieutenant for a year, until he 
was so severely wounded and shell-shocked that he had to be 
invalided out of sei'vice. He was later employed by the 
British Ministry of Labor. He made a lecture tour of the 
U. S. A. in 1918-19. He has a new volume of verse in prep- 
aration. 

What two things which make the soldiers' situation well- 
nigh unbearable are brought out vividly in this brief sketch? 
Is it the same sort of poetry as "Counter-Attack"? 



TO LUCASTA. ON GOING TO THE WAR— 
FOR THE FOURTH TIME 

(From Fairies and Fusiliers) 

Robert Graves was born in 1895. In spite of his youth, he 
was a captain in the Royal Welsh Fusiliers before his army 
service ceased. Picked up for dead on the battle-field, he is 
said to have astounded the stretcher-bearers by suddenly ex- 
claiming: "I'm not dead! I'm damned if I'll die!" He has 
just published his second volume of verse. 



NOTES 219 

What is the very famous older poem which Mr, Graves had 
in mind while writing these verses? How would you know 
this to be a product of the twentieth century, as unmistakably 
as you would know the other to be one of the seventeenth ? 



THE RETEEAT 

(From Poems) 

(For biographical note, refer to "The Return.") 

At the first of the jMesopotamian campaign, the British 
suffered reverses because of their insufficient numbers and ex- 
treme difficulty in establishing communications. Very little, 
comparatively, has been written about these campaigns, but 
from the point of strategy they were most important. British 
Campaigns in the Nearer East, by Edmund Lane, is an in- 
teresting recent work on the subject. 

Mr. Gibson's war poems generally concern the psychology 
of the soldier — that is, the way war's horrors affect his mind 
— rather than war's horrors themselves. Should you think 
this kind of war poetry would be more or less effective than 
that which employs realistic description of the horrors? 

It is very unusual to tind only two rhymes in a sonnet. 
What do you think was the author's purpose in thus limiting 
them, and in repeating one line so often? 



NIGHT IN MESOPOTAMIA 

(From Night Winds of Arahy) 

Lieutenant A. J. Eardley Dawson is twenty-one years old. 
He was educated at Cheltenham College, passed into the Cadet 



250 NOTES 

College, Qiietta, and was commissioned in 1917, Sent to an 
Indian regiment — the famous Queen 's Rajputs — he has served 
in INIesopotamia, Saloniea, South Russia, Armenia, Persia, and 
Constantinople. 

How would you like to march, fight, and sleep in an Asian 
desert where during the day the thermometer was above 110° 
and during the night not below 80° ? 

What do you consider the best line here ? 



DOES IT MATTER? 

(From Counter- Attack and Other Poems) 

(For biographical note, refer to "Night-Piece.") 
What is the method employed here to make people realize 
what war means ? Is it effective ? Do you think we have done 
and are doing enough for our disabled and nerve-racked 
veterans ? 



THE DAWN PATEOL 

(From The Dawn Patrol and Other Poenis of an Aviator.) 

Captain Paul Bewsher was the first airman to obtain notice 
as a poet. He has also won distinction as a lecturer and a 
journalist. He was educated at St. Paul's School (London). 
He gained various war honors for exploits at Zeebrugge and 
elsewhere on the Belgian coast. With all this, he is still in 
his early twenties. 



NOTES 251 

This poem, with its beauty, its sense of soaring, and its 
realization of the Great Guiding Power, has always reminded 
me of two very famous "bird" poems — one English, one 
American. Do you know them? 



AN OPEN BOAT 

(From The New Morning) 

(For biographical note, refer to "The Barrel-Organ,") 
Comparatively few poems have been written about the hor- 
rors of submarine warfare. Does this one gain in vividness 
by its briefness? Would you rather have had a longer poem 
describing the torpedoing of the ship, the escape to the open 
boat, perhaps some brave deed of the lover which cost him his 
life? What finally happened to them all? 



ADMIRAL DUGOUT 

(From Small Craft) 
(For biographical note, refer to "Sailor Town.") 

Super-dreadnoughts, cruisers, and destroyers were not the 
only ships that protected the North Sea. The plucky little 
trawlers equipped with mine-sweeping apparatus and a few 
"barkers" to riddle chance-met submarines played a heroic 
part in the struggle. Often they were commanded by men of 
exactly "Admiral Dugout's" type. 



252 NOTES 



''THE AVENUE OF THE ALLIES" 

(From The New Morning) 

(For biographical note, refer to "The Barrel-Organ.") 

Throughout the Liberty Loan campaigns and the great ac- 
eompanying parades, Fifth Avenue (New York) was a sight 
never to be forgotten. The sober brown, white and gray build- 
ings were covered with a riot of color — thousands of flags of 
the Allied Nations, as far down the "lordly street" as eye 
could see. 

What was Pentecost? What was "that world's Declara- 
tion?" What is the device on the Polish flag? What does 
"burgeons" mean? 

Why does the poet take the scene at night, rather than in 
the daytime? Could you put the main thought of the poem 
into a few words? Does it make you any prouder of your 
country ? Is it what you would have expected from an Eng- 
lishman ? 



PRAYER OF A SOLDIER IN FRANCE 

(From Poems, Essays, a:nd Leiters) 

(For biographical note, refer to "Trees.") 

Joyce Kilmer was a devoted Catholic, with a strong vein of 
religious mysticism in his temperament. What is the reverent 
and beautiful thought which comes to him in the midst of his 
trials? Do you think it would have occurred to the average 
soldier? 

In the line ' ' Men shout at me who may not speak, ' ' what is 
the antecedent of ' ' who ? " 



NOTES 25a 



THE SMALL TOWN CELEBRATES 

(From Boston, Transcript) 

(For biographical note, refer to "Good Company.") 
What were you doing- on the dawn of November 11, 1918? 
What are some especially good bits of description? How is 
Old Boozer's "preaching" typical of a negro? Why intro- 
duce the boy? The puppy? 



CONTINUITY 

(From Collected Poems) 

George W. Russell, who writes under the pseudonym 
"A.E.," is a middle-aged Irish poet and painter who is known 
and loved throughout all Ireland. His personality is calm, 
sincere, straightforward and strong, and he has abiding faith 
in the permanence of Good. His house in Dublin is a center 
for gracious hospitality and the stimulating of interest in so- 
cial, artistic, and intellectual problems. 

This poem was written in war-time. What special signifi- 
cance does it gain from that fact? 



BABY PANTOMIME 

(From The Sistine Eve) 

Percy MacKaye is forty-six years old. He was educated at 
Harvard and Leipzig. He is a dramatic rather than a lyric 
poet, having written many plays and masques in verse. (You 



254 NOTES 

would be interested in The Canterbury Pilgrims if you have 
read Chaucer.) He has lectured widely on the theater, and 
organized many community playhouses. 

Do you know a long- and difificult, but very beautiful poem 
by Wordsworth — one with an appalling title — of which this 
sounds like a humorous echo? Which of the gestures men- 
tioned have you seen a baby make most frequently? 



A MAN-CHILD'S LULLABY 

(From Poems) 

Brian Hooker was born in 1880, graduated from Yale, and 
has been instructor in English at Yale and at Columbia. He 
has written the libretto for several successful American operas, 
Horatio Parker writing the music. He is a literary editor on 
the Nctv York Sun, and lately has become interested in the 
writing of "movies." 

How does this difit'er from the preceding poem ? 

Do you remember the refrain of an old Elizabethan lullaby 
— "Sephestia's Song to Her Child" — which has this idea? 



JUSTICE 

(From Candles That Burn) 

Aline Kilmer was born in Norfolk, Virginia, in 1888, and 
educated at a private school in New Jersey. She married 
Joyce Kilmer (q.v.) in 1908. Since his death, she has pub- 
lished a volume of verse, and she contributes to various maga- 
zines. 



NOTES 255 

The Kilmers had four children. How old do you think 
Michael and his sister were when this happened? What 
primal instincts has the little girl developed? Does Michael 
realize his mother's decision is just? 



SMELLS (JUNIOR) 

(From The Rocking -Horse) 

Christopher Morley was born in Pennsylvania in 1880. He 
graduated from Haverford, and from 1910-1913 was a Rhodes 
Scholar at Oxford. He has held editorial positions with Dou- 
bleday, Page & Company, The Ladies' Home Journal, and the 
Philadelphia Public Ledger. He is now a literary editor of 
the Neif York Evening Post, conducting an enjoyable "col- 
umn." He writes fiction and essays, as well as verse. 

Can you remember any scents which especially struck your 
fancy when you were a child ? 



THE RAG DOLLY'S VALENTINE 

(From The Laughing 3Iuse) 

Arthur Guiterman was born in 1871, and graduated from 
the College of the City of New York in 1891. He has been a 
journalist and an editorial writer. Since 1911 he has contrib- 
uted a great deal of humorous verse to Life. He has con- 
ducted clas'>es in newspaper and magazine verse in New York 
University. 

"VYhy are children's favorite toys usually their most dis- 
reputable ones? What were you fond of taking to bed with 
vou ? 



256 NOTES 



THE ANXIOUS FARMER 

(From Rhymes of Home) 

Burges Johnson was born in 1877, in Vermont, and gradu- 
ated from Amlierst in 1899. He has been a reporter, and held 
various editorial positions on different magazines. Since 1915 
he has been associate professor of English at Vassar. He has 
written many books of humorous verse. 

Don't you feel like illustrating this poem? Is the title well 
chosen ? Is there any hope for the garden ? 



THE DEW-LIGHT 



(From Poems of a Little Girl) 

Little Hilda Conkling, the daughter of Mrs. Grace Hazard 
Conkling (q.v.) has been composing verse since she was four 
years old. (She was bom in 1910.) Her mother writes down 
these "songs" as Hilda gives them to her, carefully indicating 
by divisions and punctuation the original cadences of the 
child's voice. Hilda is an absolutely normal, happy, healthy 
little girl, in spite of her exceptional gift. 

As far as technique goes, this might well have been w^ritten 
by an older person. What shows you clearly, however, that 
it is the work of a child ? 



NOTES 257 



THE SHADOW PEOPLE 

(From Complete Poems) 

Francis Ledwidge, the most promising of the young Irish 
poets, was only twenty-six when he was killed in action, July, 
1917. He was a peasant boy with little education who had 
been a farmhand and laborer. But he had been writing 
creditable poetry since he was sixteen. We owe much to 
Lord Dunsany for "discovering" and encouraging him, and 
for making a collection of his verse, after his tragic death. 

The poem was written while Ledwidge was in hospital in 
Egypt. Might the child be his remembered self? Why, any- 
way, is the child distinctly Irish? What two lines do you 
like best? 



INCOEEIGIBLE 

(From Rhymes of Little Folk) 

(For biographical note, refer to "The Anxious Farmer.") 
Is it the boy's apple-tree exploit that makes him "incor- 
rigible"? 



DA YOUNGA 'MERICAN 

(From Canzoni) 

(For biographical note, refer to "Een Napoli. ") 
Why is the father proud of his boy ? the boy altogether 

worth being proud of? 



258 NOTES 



LITTLE PAN 

(From Grenstone Poems) 

Witter Bynner was born in 1881, and graduated from 
Harvard in 1902. He has been an assistant editor and literary 
editor on various magazines, and a lecturer, as well as the 
writer of several volumes of verse. Recently he has been an 
instructor at the University of California. 

Do you like the title of the poem? What line is most im- 
portant ? 

One of m3' girls said that the youngster reminded her of 
Huck Finn or Tom Sawyer. Do you see why ? 



RUFUS PEAYS 

(From Oxford Poetry, 1916) 

Leonard A. G. Strong was born in Devonshire in 1896, and 
educated at private schools and Wadham College, Oxford. 
Kept out of the army by ill health, he taught for two years at 
Summer Fields, Oxford, to which he has now returned. In 
1919 he published DaUinrjton Bhijmes, and has a volume of 
collected verse in preparation for 1921. 

A boy said that this reminded him of the parable about the 
Pharisee and the publican. 

Rufus has the repulsive outward marks of idiocy — why, 
then does he not repel us? What very beautiful conception of 
tlie future life does he phrase in his idiot way? 



NOTES 259 



AN OLD WOMAN OF THE KOADS 

(From Wild Earth and Other Poems) 

Padraie Colum was born in Ireland, 1881. Before coming 
to the United States to live (in 1914) he was an editor of the 
Irish Review (Dublin) and a founder of the Abbey Theater 
(Irish National Theater). He lectures on poetry and Irish 
literature. He has written plays and sketches as well as 
poems. 

In Ireland, the female tramp, be she bego-ar, peddler, or 
mere wanderer, is a familiar figure. Synge has drawn a 
charming humorous picture of such an old woman and her 
husband in his comedy The Well of the Saints. 

]\Iight this longing find an echo in the hearts of any class in 
America ? 

Why wouldn't the old woman crave company in her little 
house ? 



THE ANCIENT BEAUTIFUL THINGS 

(From Atlantic Monthly) 

(For biographical note, refer to "AVild Weather.") 
What are ' ' the ancient beautiful things ' ' meant here ? How 
do they differ from the delights of a home as pictured by "the 
old woman of the roads"? Do you recall a scene in a play by 
Maeterlinck which is suggested by the lines beginning, "How 
should we have chosen her?" What famous Bible text sounds 
like an answer to the last question? 



260 NOTES 



YOU, FOUE WALLS, WALL NOT IN MY 
HEART ! 

(From The Singing Man) 

Josephine Preston Peabody (Mrs. Marks) was born in New 
York, and took her B. A. at Radcliffe in 1894. For a time she 
was in the English Department at Wellesley. She married in 
1906. In 1910 her play The Piper was awarded the Stratford- 
on-Avon prize. She has published several volumes of verse. 

Which poem do you think has a bigger thought, this or the 
preceding 1 



MY DOG 

(From Foothills of Parnassiis) 

John Kendriek Bangs is a lecturer and humorist as well as 
a writer. Also, he has been an editor on various periodicals. 
He was born in 1862, and is a Columbia graduate. Two well- 
known books of his are A Houseboat on the Styx, and Ghosts 
I Have Met. 

Why has this little poem given delight to readers of all 
ages? 



IN SERVICE 

(From Songs of Leinster) 

(For biographical note, refer to "The Spires of Oxford.") 
Which picture do you prefer here — that of the wistful-eyed 



NOTES 261 

little serving-maid in her unprecedented finery (even boots!), 
or that of the fishing-village which is her home? 

Wordsworth once wrote a poem about a homesick country 
girl in town — do you know it ? 



MY SWEET BROWN GAL 

(From Lyrics of Love and Laughter) 

Paul Laurence Dunbar was born in Dayton, Ohio, and edu- 
cated in the public schools there. For a time he was a jour- 
nalist in New York, and then was on the stai'f of the Congres- 
sional Library. He published many small volumes of verse, 
beginning when he was twenty-one. His readings of his own 
poems delighted large audiences. His untimely death in 
1906 — he was only thirty -two — meant a great loss to American 
poetiy. 

Mr. Dunbar was the first American negro to stimulate in- 
terest in his race through poetry characteristic of them, and 
written in their dialect. Ever since his death, his influence 
has persistently showed itself in the ever-increasing attention 
given to negro "spirituals" and songs. 

Warmth, peace, music from a beloved instniment — could 
the most palatial home offer much better things on a stormy 
night ? 

THE SUNKEN GAEDEN 

(From Moiley) 

(For biographical note, refer to preceding poem.) 
What gives this poem the touch of mystery — ' ' spookiness, ' ' 
as one of my pupils put it? ("The Listeners" is another 



2G2 NOTES 

famous one of this type.) Louis Untermeyer lias parodioil 
this trait delieiously in his volume " — and Others," where 
Walter de la Mare is supposed to tell the story of Jack and 
Jill. Yon would enjoy reading- that — and other take-offs in 
the book, too. 

"What gives you the impression tlial the garden is an old 
one ■? 



THE GARDEN BY MOONLIGHT 

(From Pictures of the Floating ^Yor]d) 

(For biographical note, refer to "The Bombardment.") 
One of ]\liss Lowell's passions is gardens. She has written 
many poems about them; 3-ou will find three others in this 
same volume. 

Do you tliink gardens are lovelier by day or by moonlight ? 
Does the touch of sadness seem natural on such a night ? Do 
you like the introduction of the black cat '■ Compare and con- 
trast this poem with the previous one. 

TO MY BKOTHER 

(From Service a)id Sacrifice) 

Corinne Roosevelt Robinson was the "Conie" of Theodore 
Roosevelt's boyhood diary — his younger sister, to whom he 
was always devoted. In her early twenties she married Doug- 
las Robinson, the capitalist. Her two hol)bies have been poetry 
— of which she has published two volumes — and politics, a 
game in which she has proved herself a forceful and vivacious 
speaker. 

On the death of our great ex-President, many poetic tributes 



NOTES 263 

were paid to him as an official, a statesman, and a leader. 
(The two best known, perhaps, are by Kipling and Masters — 
' ' Greatheart ' ' and ' ' At Sagamore Hill. ' ' ) This tribute by his 
sister shows a side of greatness which popular estimation is 
apt to overlook. 

The rhyme-scheme here is the one immortalized by Tenny- 
son in a poem about a dear friend of his who had died. Do 
you know it ? 



A MILE WITH ME 

(From The Poems of Henry van Dyke) 

Henry van Dyke was born in Pennsylvania, 1852. He took 
his B. A. at Princeton in 1873, and studied further at several 
other universities, from which he holds other degrees. He 
was ordained a Presbyterian minister in 1877. Later he was 
professor of English at Princeton. From 1913-16 he was 
American minister to the Netherlands and Luxembourg. Be- 
sides poetry, he has written many essays. 

Why would this poem be a good one to copy in an auto- 
graph album? 



MY FRIEND 

(From Echoes and Realities) 

Walter Prichard Eaton was born in ^Massachusetts, 1878. 
He took his A. B. at Harvard in 1900. He has been dramatic 
correspondent and critic on various newspapers, and lately 
for the American Macjazine. He has written fiction and 
sketches, especially for boys. 



264 NOTES 

A certain fine reserve between even the best of friends is 
very characteristic of New Englanders. Do you like it, or do 
you prefer to share all your friends' secrets? What did 
Emerso» say on this subject? Bacon? What two splendid 
traits does ' ' my friend ' ' possess ? Do you think the compari- 
son employed throughout is an apt one ? 



PEOPLE 

(From Spring Morning) 

Frances D. Cornford is the granddaughter of Charles Dar- 
win. She was bom in 1886. She married in 1909, her hus- 
band (Francis Macdonald Cornford) being a Fellow of and 
Lecturer of Trinity College, Cambridge. She has published 
a morality play, Death and the Princess, and two volumes of 
poems. 

Dickens emphasizes this same idea in the opening para- 
graph of Chapter III, A Tale of Two Cities. Do you remem- 
ber it? The last lines of the preceding poem, also, have this 
thought — with what difference? Mrs. Cornford originally 
called this poem "Social Intercourse." Does that suggest an- 
other difference ? 



SONG 

(From Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke) 

(For biographical note, refer to "The Soldier.") 
Rupert Brooke was simple, normal, healthy, balanced, to a 
fine degree. Such j-)eople rarely need to fear their emotions. 



NOTES 265 

for they find them spontaneous, deep, and oddly familiar. 
What two false emotions which mark the unbalanced type of 
person are suggested in the first two stanzas'? Can you think 
of others? 



THE LOOK 

(From Love Songs) 

Sara Teasdale (Mrs. Filsinger) was born in St. Louis, 1884, 
and educated at private schools. She has traveled much 
abroad. She was married in 1914, and now lives in New York 
City. Love Songs, published in 1917, was awarded the Colum- 
bia prize of $500 for that year. She has brought out two 
other volumes of verse, and an anthology of love-poems by 
women. 

What trait of human nature makes this little poem ring 
true? Would it be good to set to music? 



TO A DISTANT ONE 

(From Collected Poems) 

(For biographical note, refer to "The Shadow People.") 
This poem was written while Francis Ledwidge was in bar- 
racks, shortly before his death. Its prophecy, therefore, was 
never fulfilled on earth. But I can never read it without 
thinking of the young hero of a war-play Across the Border, 
by Beulah Marie Dix. All his life he has been looking for the 
girl who shall be "fragrance, light and life" to him, without 



266 NOTES 

finding her. She is found at last, in the world beyond ours. 

Ought a man to wait until he has something — and that 
doesn't mean merely money — to offer a girl? Why does the 
poet say, "Till Fame and other little things were won"? 



MARY, HELPER OF HEARTBREAK 

(From The Old Road to Paradise) 

(For biographical note, refer to "The Factories.") 
A sixteenth century sonnet by Michael Drayton. "Since 
there 's no help, come let us kiss and part ' ' has this same idea — 
that the best of reasoning is often but a crumbling wall against 
the sweeping tide of emotion, the most carefully marshaled 
arguments a vain defense against "the defeat we love better 
than victory." It is stated in the same wa.y, too, with the 
unexpected twist at the end. Read the sonnet and see which 
of the two poems you consider more forceful. 



GARDEN OF THE ROSE 

(From Star-Glow and Song) 

Charles Buxton Going was born in Westchester County, 
1863. He is a Columbia graduate, and his vocation is en- 
gineering. During the war he was a major in the Ordnance 
Department. He has published two volumes about engineer- 
ing, and three of poems. 

A famous Elizabethan love-song "Cherry -Ripe" compares 
a ffirl 's face to a garden of flowers ; but this comparison is 
rather new. Do you tliink it is effective? 



NOTES 267 

Mediaeval romances are full of brave knights, each of whom 
worshiped one maiden. 

''by years of noble deeds 
Until they won her. ' ' 

Their fair but over-capricious lady-loves often kept them 
waiting for a length of time which must have sorely tried the 
lovers' patience. Yet even in this day of rapid-fire action, 
the wise lover will wait patiently. For if reverent respect for 
another's personality is a fine quality of friendship, it is in- 
dispensable in the most perfect but most difficult relationship 
of all. 



THE LITTLE GOLDEN FOUNTAIN 

(From The Little Golden Fountain) 

Marj^ Mac]\Iillan was born in Ohio, and educated there and 
at Bryn JMawr College. She is a writer of plays {Short Plays 
and More Short Plays) articles, stories, and verse. She has a 
second volume of the latter in preparation. 

Here is another "conceit," as old John Donne would have 
called it, still more elaborately carried out. Does its elabor- 
ateness detract from or add to the thought so old and yet 
forever new — "Mon coeur est plein de toi"? (Do you know 
Tosti's setting of that song?) 



268 NOTES 



SONGS OF A GIRL 

(From Youth Riding) 

Mary Carolyn Davies was married in 1919, but still writes 
under her maiden name. She is by birth a Far-Westerner ; she 
studied at the University of California, 1911-12, and later at 
New York University. She was among the founders of 
Others, a group of free verse writers. She has published sev- 
eral volumes of poems and plays. 

What feeling is here shown to be the foundation of true 
love? 



PSALM TO MY BELOVED 

(From Bodij and Raiment) 

Eunice Tietjens (Mrs. Head) was born in 1884, in Chicago. 
She studied much abroad, and after her first marriage com- 
pleted a tour of the world. She was formerly an associate 
editor of Poetry. Her first book was Profiles from China. 

Every one acknowledges that the Psalms, though written 
as prose, are poetry in a very true sense of the word. This 
little poem is deliberately modeled on their long, flowing 
cadences, and their trick of repetition. It is particularlj' a 
poem that needs reading aloud. 

One of the most beautiful of all German love-songs, "Wid- 
mung," by Riickert, (the famous setting is by Schumann) has 
somewhat this idea, especially in the line, "Du bist die Ruh, 
du bist der Frieden." 



NOTES 269 



THE REFLECTION 

(From The Rockincj Horse) 

(For biographical note, refer to "Smells — Junior.") 
Is the woman mother, sister, or wife? What is the secret 
of her personal influence over the man? Is she conscious of 
it? Is he? When you finally meet people of whom you have 
heard a great deal, do you find the reality the same as "the 
reflection"? 



A LYNMOUTH WIDOW 

(From In Deep Places) 

Amelia Josephine Burr was born in New York City, 1878, 
and is a graduate of Hunter College. During the war she did 
interesting volunteer work of various kinds. Recently she 
has made a trip around the world. She has published one 
novel, two volumes of plays, and five volumes of verse. 

AYhy is this short poem so powerful? What good bit of 
psychology does it contain? 



PARTING 

(From Poetry) 

Alice Corbin was born in St. Louis. In 1905 she married 
William Penhallow Henderson, the artist. Since 1912 she 



270 NOTES 

has been an associate editor of Poetry, and although severely 
handicapped by ill-health, has done nuich for the magazine, 
especially by her researches among old folk-songs. With Miss 
Monroe, she compiled The New Poetry (1917). She has pub- 
lished one volume of verse, and one of plays. 

This is an "interpretation," rather than an exact transla- 
tion, of an old Indian poem. A splendid anthology, Cronyn's 
Path on the Rainhow, containing many other poems of this 
same sort, indicates the awakening interest of modern Ameri- 
cans in the oldest American literature. Incidentally, we don't 
feel so modern when we discover that all these poems were in 
free verse. 

What famous poem did Burns write about a dear old couple 
who had almost reached the end of a happy life together? 



THE PENALTY OF LOVE 

(From Poems of the Unknown IV oy) 

Sidney Royse Lysaght is a scholarly, wealthy, widely- 
traveled Irish author, now middle-aged. He has published 
two volumes of verse and three novels. 

How does this differ from the other love-poems you have 
just read? What is "the penalty" of love, even when one's 
love is returned? Did Elaine think that the joy of her o^vn 
love was worth this penalty, when her love was not requited ? 
Did Sydney Carton? Why is any one "poor" if he turns 
love from his door? 



NOTES 271 



BARTER 



(From Love Songs) 

(For biographical note, refer to "The Look.") 
Seventy-odd years ago, with the spirit of the Puritans still 
strong upon him, James Russell Lowell wrote : 

"Earth gets its price for what earth gives us; 

At the Devil's booth are all things sold. 
Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold ; 
For a cap and bell our lives we pay. 
Bubbles we buy with a whole soul's tasking." 

Is the view of this poem Pagan, in contrast? Or are the 
things to be bartered of a slightly different sort? What are 
some other bits of loveliness that Life has sold to vou? 



TIME, YOU OLD GIPSY MAN 

(From Poems) 

Ralph Hodgson has always shunned publicity of any kind. 
Therefore, little is known of liim, except that he is about 
forty, lives a quiet life in the country, and is very fond of 
animals. He has published only two volumes of poems (in 
1907 and 1917) and those very small ones, but the quality of 
his verse is the opposite of the quantity. 

Humor and solemnity are not usually supposed to exist at 
the same time. How does the poet introduce the former with- 
out detracting from the latter? 



272 NOTES 



SONNET 

(From Poems, First Series) 

John Collings Squire was born in 1884; educated at Blun- 
dell 's and Cambridge. He has published clever parodies and a 
good deal of original verse, and has been interested in the 
editing of literary magazines. His latest venture is The 
London Mereiiry, a delightful monthly covering poetry, 
novels, essays, etc. 

Do you think this sonnet is more effective than it would be 
if it were written from the point of view of Columbus and his 
sailors? (By the way, do you know a famous poem about 
Columbus?) WTiat were "caravels"? Why are they called 
' ' doom-burdened ' ' ? 



PROVINCETOWN 

(From The Independent) 

Marie Louise Hersey (Mrs. Forbes) was born in Hartford, 
Connecticut, in 1895 ; educated in schools there and in Den- 
ver, Colorado; graduated from Radclitfe College in 1916, 
married in 1918. She has not yet published a volume of 
verse, but her work has appeared in magazines and an- 
thologies. 

This, as you may guess, is a "tercentenary" poem. In few 
towns along the New England coast is the contrast between 
the old America and the new more sharply impressed on one 
than in Provincetown. 

What are some particularly beautiful bits of description in 
the poem? 



NOTES 273 

AMERICA 

(From Mushwoms) 

Alfred Kreymborg was born in 1883, in New York City, 
where he still lives. He has published three books of original 
verse, been the founder and editor of two anthologies of 
Imagist verse, and been the first to introduce free verse into 
drama, in his Plays for Poem Mimes. 

Because of IMr. Kreymborg's whimsical fancies and fearless 
humor, critics have accused him of flippancy. His friends 
know him to be a tireless, quiet, earnest toiler with a deep vein 
of seriousness. Do you see both sides of him in this poem, or 
does one predominate? 

"Why is the "boy" calling "All, One"? 



RECESSIONAL 

(From Rudyarcl Kiplmg's Poems ; Inclusive Edition) 

Queen Victoria's Diamond Jubilee, 1897, was the occasion of 
such rejoicing and splendor as England had seldom known. 
Poets outdid themselves in florid tributes to the greatness of 
their Queen and their country. You can judge what an 
effect this poem produced, under the circumstances. Why 
did the poet choose this title? Why has the poem been so 
often quoted within the last few years? Is it at all applicable 
to America ? 

The best-known musical setting of this poem is by Reginald 
de Koven. 



274 NOTES 



IF 



(For biographical note, refer to "The Feet of the Young 
Men.") 

Emerson once called parody a ' ' saucy homage. ' ' This poem 
has had that sort of homage paid to it time and time again. 
Why is it worth serious admiration, as well? "Which "if" 
would be the hardest one for you? 



COURAGE 

(From Moods, Songs, and Doggerel) 

John Galsworthy was born in 1867. He began writing 
young, and has had a most successful career as essayist, nov- 
elist, and dramatist ; he has also published one volume of 
poems. During part of the war, he gave his services at an 
English hospital for French soldiers. He has made several 
lecture-tours of the United States, and done much to 
strengthen the friendly relations between Britons and 
Americans. 

Courage — not only the kind that rises to emergencies, but the 
kind that holds on with a bulldog grip through a long, weary 
ordeal — has always been a superlative virtue of the English. 
A superb anthology might be made of English poems glorify- 
ing courage. Can jou think of five or six famous ones ? 



PEAYER 

(From Challenge) 

(For biographical note, refer to "Highmount.") 

"What aspirations mark this "prayer" as being one of the 



NOTES 275 

twentieth century? Whj^ should one pray to be kept from 
"sleek contentment" and from "compromise"? "What line 
in the poem reminds you of the two you have just read ? 



A CREED 

(From The Shoes of Happiness) 

Edwin Markham was born in Oregon, 1852, and his boy- 
hood years were spent on a ranch, where he learned every- 
tliing from farming to blaeksmithing. He attended San Jose 
Normal School and two Western colleges, and was in succes- 
sion a teacher, a school principal, and a superintendent of 
schools in California. He began writing poetr}- when young, 
and since 1899, has devoted himself almost entirely to that and 
lecturing. 

"The Man with the Hoe," (a poem inspired by Millet's 
famous painting) which Mr. Markham published in 1899, 
created a great sensation. It emphasizes tlie age-long oppres- 
sion of the poor, the power dormant in tliese masses, and the 
responsibility of the ruling class toward them — a responsi- 
bility which they may realize too late, in the hour of rebellion. 
We appreciate that fact quite fully to-day. This poem, how- 
ever — dedicated by a Christian to a Jew — emphasizes another 
significant fact which is not yet fully appreciated. Do you 
think it will be within the next twenty years? You notice 
it's a rather broader question than that of mere religious tol- 
eration. 



THE GREAT LOVER 

(From Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke) 
(For biographical note, refer to "The Soldier,") 



276 NOTES 

Do you see any significance in the fact that this poem was 
written while Brooke was visitino; one of the most beautiful 
places in the world? Why do some people love life more 
intensely than others ? What is the danger in the ' ' catalogue ' ' 
type of poem 'I How does Brooke avert it ? 



GIFTS 

(From Factories) 

(For biographical note, refer to "The Factories.") 
Do you think it is pessimistic to anticipate the difference 
between hope and achievement? Why, as one grows older, 
should he appreciate the little things more and more? Does 
such appreciation make him give up struggling for the big 
things? What did Browning say about a man's reach and 
his grasp '! 



EICHAED CORY 

(From Children of the Night) 

Edwin Arlington Robinson was boni in Maine, 1869. From 
1891-1893 he was at Harvard. Children of the Night was his 
first publication. From 1905-1910 he was in the New York 
Custom House. The Man Against the Sky (1016) won great 
praise. He now devotes himself entirely to literature. 

Do you see any connection between the story of this poem 
and the Tenth Commandment ? How does Richard Cory 
show himself "a gentleman of the old school"? What might 
have driven him to suicide? Technically speaking, do you 
consider this a well-written poem? 



NOTES 277 



A FARMER REMEMBERS LINCOLN 

(From Grejisione Poems) 

(For biographical note, refer to "Little Pan.") 
Many fine poems have been written by Americans about this 
great President. Five of them (four besides this) will be 
found in Untermeyer's Modern American Poetry. This one 
my own particular classes have usually liked the best, be- 
cause they say it "sounds the most human." 



SUNSET 

(From The Sistine Eve) 

(For biographical note, refer to "Baby Pantomine.") 
Is the double concept novel? Appealing? What was the 
impression of life in general, and especially of old age, given 
by Jaques in his famous speech about the "seven ages"? Con- 
trast with that the impression given by the sestet here. 



SILENCE 

(From Songs and Satires) 

Edgar Lee Masters was born in Kansas, 1869. In his boy- 
hood he lived on a farm. His father was anxious he should 
l)ecorae a lawyer; so he attended Knox College, practised in 
an office, and was admitted to the bar in 1891. His law career 



278 NOTES 

has been very successful ; he has also been interested and in- 
fluential in Illinois politics; but his heart has always been in 
his writing, which his family opposed and which for many 
years failed to gain him recognition. But since the publica- 
tion of Sjyoon River Anthology, fame, though tardy, has made 
up to him for lost time. He has published five volumes since. 
Which conception of silence — a consolation, a refuge, a 
weapon, a promise, — appeals to you most? 



THE COWBOY'S DEE AM 

(From Cowboy Songs) 

John A. Lomax is a professor in the University of Texas. 
Hq^Is a graduate of that university and of Harvard. As Shel- 
don Fellow for the Investigation of American Ballads he trav- 
eled far and wide to make this collection — a task for which he 
was particularly fitted because his boyhood was spent on the 
old Chisholm Trail in Texas. He has recently published a 
second collection called Songs of the Cattle Trail and Cow 
Camp. 

Though interest in these ballads is recent, their composition 
belongs mainly to the '60 's and 70 's, when the old fashioned 
cowboy was a familiar figure and a real force in Western civ- 
ilization. They grew up in much the same manner that the 
old English ballads did; they often have as many different 
versions; like their prototypes, they are usually sung. This 
particular one has been selected partly because it is set to a 
tune familiar enough for you to sing it. Shut the classroom 
door and try ! 

The note of moralizing, and even of melancholy, is quite as 
evident in these songs as the note of rollicking cheer and dar- 
ing. Do you see why? 



NOTES 279 

*Tlie term ^'dog-ie" {g soft) meant origmally a motherless 
calf; it came to be generally applied to any cattle. "Mav- 
erick" means the same. 

*For this information and mnch of the above I am indebted 
to Professor Lomax. 



GENERAL WILLIAM BOOTH ENTERS INTO 
HEAVEN 

(From General William Booth Enters Into Heaven and 
Other Poems) 

(For biographical note, refer to "An Indian Summer Da^' 
on the Prairie.") 

Mr. Lindsay has a peculiar and effective method of reciting 
his poetry. He chants it (with or without musical accompa- 
niment), and by his rich and flexible voice creates almost 
orchestral effects. The English poet, Siegfried Sassoon, after 
hearing him in America last year, wrote an "impression" of 
the recital which begins: 

"Switch on the golden lights and set him going; 
Foam-flowers and dragons; rag-time glorious." 

The catchy rhythms and dramatic delivery often result in 
just that. 

Do you think the poem represents the spirit of the Salva- 
tion Army? One of my boys said he thought the treatment 
of the subject was over-theatrical and resulted in cheapness. 
(Do you agree with him?) But he went on to give two 
reasons why he liked the poem. What do you think they 
were ? 



280 NOTES 

\ 

THE DEVIL 

(From Poetical ^Yor^xs) 

William Henry Driimmond was a, Canadian, born in 1854. 
He was edneated at McGill and Bishops University (Mont- 
real). By vocation he was a physician, but by avocation a 
writer of verse and a lecturer. He was widely known in the 
United States as well as in Canada. He was a great athlete 
and lover of the outdoors; thus he knew, first-hand, a great 
deal about rural French-Canadian life, the chief subject of his 
verse. He died in 1907. 

The idea of a man's selling his soul to the devil in return 
for material gifts in this world is a very old one. AVhat is 
one of the most famous versions? How does this one differ? 
How do you suppose a story like this might begin and grow, 
in a small settlement of superstitious people? Would they 
take it seriously, or regard it as an entertaining ' ' fish story ? ' ' 

By "election man" is meant the typical honey-tongued pol- 
itician who stumps the more remote districts to get votes for 
his party. 

THE HOST OF THE AIR 

(From Poems) 

William Butler Yeats wa.s born in Dublin, 1865. He at- 
tended schools at Hammersmith and Dublin, his early interest 
being in the study of art. But at twenty-one, he decided he 



NOTES 281 

preferred literature as a. career. He did memorable work as 
a founder of the Abbey Theater, thus laying the foundation 
for the re-awakening of Irish national interest in the drama, 
and has written several plays for its stage. (You would like, 
especially, The Land of Heart's Desire.) He has also written 
many poems. Last year he made a lecture tour in the United 
States. 

A very interesting collection of Irish folk-lore may be 
found in Lady Gregory's latest book, Visions and Beliefs of 
the West of Ireland. In the Preface, she sums up the various 
superstitions concerning the "Sidhe" or "host of the air." 
These strange beings have been since the foundation of the 
world. Not every one can see them, and they often change 
their own shapes in any way they choose. ' ' They are as many 
as the blades of grass. . . . Fighting is heard amx)ng them, 
and music that is more beautiful than any of this world." 
Often they bewitch strong j^oung men or beautiful young 
women to come and live with them for seven years, or twice 
seven years, or perhaps their whole allotted lifetimes, send- 
ing them back to earth only to die. "While these are away, 
a body in their likeness, or the likeness of a body, is left lying 
in their place." Not only mortals but those who have re- 
cently died, may be found among the Sidhe. "When the 
Sidhe pass by in a blast of wind we should say some words of 
blessing, for there may be among them some of our own dead. ' ' 



THE FIDDLER OF DOONEY 

(From Poems) 

(For biographical note, refer to preceding poem.) 

This has been set to very jolly music, by Sidney Homer. 

By the way, what qualities must a poem possess, if it is 



282 NOTES 

to be given a musical setting? What poet, himself a musician, 
indicated the proper relations of words to music, when he 
said: 

"Lap me in soft Lydian airs. 
Married to immortal verse"? 



THE FAUN SEES SNOW FOR THE FIRST 

TIME 

(From Images — Old and New) 

Richard Aldington was born in 1892, educated at Dover 
College and London University. Leaving before completion 
of his course, he did newspaper work for awhile, then traveled 
on the Continent. In 1913 he became assistant editor of the 
Egotist. In 1916 he joined the army, soon being promoted to 
ot^cer's rank for great bravery. Since 1918, he has been on 
the staff of the London Times. lie is regarded as the leading 
"Imagist" poet in England. In 1913 he married "H. D." 
(Hilda Doolittle) , one of the young American Imagists, He is 
the London correspondent of Poetry. 

Mr. Aldington's intense admiration for the poetry of 
ancient Greece has influenced nrany of his own verses, not 
only in subject-matter, but in beaut}- and in finish. 

Have you ever heard Debussy's "L'Apres-^lidi d'une 
Faune, " with its atmosphere of summer warmth and perfume, 
and sunlight shimmering through green leaves? If you have, 
you can imagine all the better the impotent anger, dismay, 
and misery of this poor creature who finds himself shivering 
in the midst of a world he has never known before. Yet you 
have to laugh at him. "Why? 

The epithets and allusions employed are most appropriate. 
Can you explain them all? 



NOTES 283. 



ETIQUETTE 

(From The Laughing Muse) 

(For biographical note, refer to "The Rag Dolly's Valen- 
tine.") 

This is an amnsing variation of a story told over five hun- 
dred years ago by Geoffrey Chaucer — about a fox who got a 
rooster into his power by flattering hira and then was in 
turn foiled by the rooster. It's The Nun's Priest's Tale. 
Read it, in the original if you can, and if not in The Modern 
Reader's Chaucer, by Tatlock and iMacKaye. The animal 
story is more in vogue now than it has been since the Middle 
Ages — the difference being, however, that they endowed their 
animal-heroes with human attributes, and we do not. 

THE POTATOES' DANCE 

(From The Chinese Nightingale) 

(For biographical note, refer to "An Indian Summer Day 
on the Prairie.") 

This is a "poem game," a form with Avhich Mr. Lindsay 
has experimented a good deal. The volume from which this 
is taken contains an interesting preface to the "poem games," 
the substance of it being as follows: The poem is chanted,, 
and with the chanting of each line a dancer illustrates the ac- 
tion or idea of the line by steps or by expressive pantomine. 
(As you will guess at once, the repetition of the lines is 
necessary to give time for the dancer's illustrative motions.) 
"But neither the dancing nor the chanting nor any other 
thing should be allowed to run awa}^ with the original inten- 



284 NOTES 

tion of the words." (This particular poem was once chanted 
for the Florence Fleming Noyes school of dancers, who made 
it into "a veritable whirlwind.") The audience, also, may 
take its part in playing certain games where responses are 
necessary. (See "King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba.") 
The whole point is to sweep the audience into the poet 's own 
mood, and to make them realize the tremendous suggestive- 
ness of the rhythms of English speech. 

If any of you are interested in interpretative dancing, why 
not try this yourselves? 

DAGONET, ARTHUR'S FOOL 

(From Aldeharan) 

Muriel St. Clare Byrne is twenty-five years old. She was 
educated at The Belvedere School (Liverpool), and Somer- 
ville College, Oxford, of which University she is a I\I.A. 
She has taught school, been to France as a Y. M. C. A. staff- 
lecturer in English in the Army Schools, and is now an 
assistant-tutor in Oxford. 

In which one of Tenm'son's Idylls does one hear most of 
Dagonet ? 

Show that this little poem stops at just the right minute. 



FORTY SINGING SEAMEN 

(From Collected Poems) 

(For biographical note, refer to "The Barrel-Organ.") 
For several hundred years after the Crusades, Europeans 
were extremely curious — and densely ignorant — about the 
strange, dim "rich East." In 1420, or so, everybody was 



NOTES 285 

talking about a hook called Voiage and Travaile of Sir John 
Mandeville, supposedly by a returned traveler who had seen 
all the wonders of Asia. It told of one-eyed giants, dwarfs 
with no tongues, wild geese with two heads apiece, kings whose 
thrones, tables and chairs were of gold and jewels, a huge 
lake made of the tears which Adam and Eve had wept when 
they were driven out of Paradise, etc. A long time afterward, 
it was discovered that "Sir John" never existed, and his liter- 
ary creator had never been to Asia, but had merely drawn 
on old books of travel and a very fertile imagination. But 
the book is still vastly entertaining reading for a stormy after- 
noon. Chapter 27 is the one in which Prester John is men- 
tioned. He was a supposed Christian king and priest, reputed 
to rule over a huge and marvelously wealthy territory in 
Asia. 

Do you remember who Polyphemus was? What is the 
force of the comparison in stanzas 1 and 2? What do you 
consider the most ludicrous part of the sailors' experience? 
What was the Phoenix? Why represent the men, finally, as 
not sure what had happened? 



WHEN SHAKESPEARE LAUGHED 

(From The Rocking -Horse) 

(For biographical note, refer to "Smells — Junior.") 
In what plays by Shakespeare do we laugh Avith— -or at — 
Falstafif, Puck and Caliban? What other plays have you read 
which show what a keen sense of humor the great dramatist 
must have possessed ? What are the little touches here which 
make the whole picture lifelike? (Ben Jonson was very fat.) 
Alfred Noyes' Tales of the Mermaid Tavern give elaborately 
and quite wonderfully the "local color" which is just sug- 
gested here. 



286 NOTES 

Perhaps you have noticed that the verse-form is exactly 
that of ' ' In Flanders Fields. ' ' Why is the effect here utterly 
different ? 



SUGGESTED BY THE COVER OF A VOLUME OF 
KEATS 'S POEMS 

(From A Dome of Many-Colored Glass) 

(For biographical note, refer to "The Bombardment. ") 
Miss Lowell has always admired ^ireatly the works of John 
Keats. (When did he live, and what are some of his most 
famous poems f) As perhaps you remember, he died of con- 
sumption when he was only twenty-six. 

How would you know that the author of this poem was 
a lover of the great out-doors? 



THE SHEPHERD TO THE POET 

(From The Transcript) 

Agnes Kendrick Gray was bom in 1894. She has lived on 
army posts in this country and the Philippines and traveled 
in China, Japan, and Hawaii. She graduated from Leland 
Stanford in 1915, and studied at Radcliffe 1916-1917. She 
has been Assistant Editor and Translator of The New France, 
and published a translation of a French book on spiritualism. 
Her poems have appeared in magazines and anthologies. 

How many people do you know whose opinion of poets re- 
sembles the shepherd's? Do you think these "benighted 



NOTES 287 

brethren" could ever be converted? What makes a man use- 
ful, in this world? 



TO YOURSELF 

(From Grenstone Poems) 

(For biographical note, refer to "Little Pan.") 
What element present in most good poetry is emphasized 
here? Do you think the poetic instinct is inherent in the 
majority of people, needing merely a chance for expression? 
Can one cultivate the habit of expressing himself in poetry? 
Would such a habit be worth while? Have any poems in this 
book made you wish that you could write poetry? 



SUPPLEMENTARY READING LIST 

Here are one hundred and seventy-five additional titles of 
recent poems you may like. All but a few may be found in 
volumes published by the poets themselves, and if you have 
access to a good library, it is fun to hunt them up in those 
volumes. But since the average school library contains merely 
anthologies of modern verse, only those poems are given here 
which may also be found in one or more of twelve well-known 
collections, as follows : 

Braithwaite, Golden Treasury of INlagazine Verse. 

Braithwaite, Modern British Verse 

Clarke, Treasury of War Poetry (2 series) 

Foccroft, War Verse 

Monroe and Henderson, The New Poetry 

Poetry Bookshop {publishers), Georgian Poetry, 1911-1919 

(separate volumes) 
Richards, High-Tide 

Rittenhoiise, Little Book of IModern Verse 
Rittenhouse, Second Book of ]Modem Verse 
Wilkinson, New Voices 
Untermeyer, Modem American Poetry 
Untermeyer, Modern British Poetry 

With this limitation, the list is by no means a complete one. 
It omits some poems not yet released to anthologies, like 
"Greatheart" by Kipling, and "Smoke and Steel" by Sand- 
burg; long poems like "Dauber" by Masefield (part of this, 
however, is given in Modern British Poetry) ; Crescent Moon 
by Tagore (translated from the Bengali), and Peacock Pie by 
De La Mare, volumes of child poems; negro songs and cow- 
boy ballads, like Fifty Years and Other Poems, by James 
Weldon Johnson and the two anthologies, Coivhoy Songs and 
Songs of the Cattle Trail by John A. Lomax. 

All these you would enjoy. However, by the time you have 
finished even half of the poems mentioned here, you will be 
familiar enough with the names of contemporary poets to 
continue your researches for jourself. 

"288 



SUPPLEMENTARY READING LIST 289 

Aiken, Miracles, Morning Song of Senlin 

Aldington, In the Trenches, In the British Museum, To a 

Gr,eek Marble 
Anonymous (Foxcroft), The Voices, "They Also Serve . . ." 

Crocuses at Nottingham 
Belloc, The South Country 
Benet, S. V., Portrait of a Boy 
Bewsher, Searchlights 
Bottomley, Netted Strawberries 
Branch, Songs for My Mother 
Brooke, The Dead, The Fish 
Brown, A. F., The Heritage 
Burnet, Gayheart 

Burr, Lie- Awake Songs, Kitchener's March, "Where Love Is 
Bynner, A Thrush in the Moonlight 
Camphell, J., I am the jMountainy Singer 
Camphell, N., The Monkey 
Camphell, W., Langemarck at Ypres 
Carman, Lord of My Heart's Elation 
Carruth, Each in His Own Tongue 
Cather, "Grandmither, Think Not I Forget" 
Ca/wein, Aubade 
Chapman, Song of the Zeppelin 
Chesterton, The Song of Elf, Lepanto 
Coates, Indian-Pipe 
Conkling, Refugees 
Corhin, Echoes of Childhood 
Crapsey, Cinquains 

Daly, Da Leetla Boy, Mia Carlotta, Song of the Thrush 
Davies, W. H., The" Rain 
Davis, F. S., Souls 
De la Mare, The Listeners, Nod 
Dohson, "When There Is Peace" 
H. D., Orchard, Oread, The Shrine 
Doyle, The Guards Came Through 

Drinkwater, Symbols, Politics, May Garden, The Midlands 
Drummond, Little Bateese, Little Lac Greiiier 
Dunhar, Hymn, A Coquette Conquered 
Dunsany, Songs from an Evil Wood 
Ficke, "I am in love with far, high-seeing places" 



290 SUPPLEMENTARY READING LIST 

Fletcher, Rain in the Desert, Lincoln 

Forman, The Three Lads 

Frank, The Jew to Jesus 

Freeman, Music Comes, November Skies 

Frost, Mending Wall, The Gum-Gatherer 

Gibson, Color, Oblivion, Gold, The Messages 

Gilbert, The Mandrake's Horrid Scream 

Glasgow, A Lullaby 

Gore-Booth, The Waves of Breffny 

Graves, It 's a Queer Time 

Guiney, Tryste Noel 

Guiterman, In the Hospital 

Hardy, The :\Ian He Killed 

Hodgson, Eve 

Housnian, Reveille 

Hoveg, The Sea Gypsy 

Hueff'er, Children's Song 

Kilmer, J., Martin 

Kipling, The Choice, Road-Song of the Bandar Log, Gunga 

Din, The Conundrum of the Workshops 
Kreymborg, A., Idealists, Old iManuscript 
Lawrence, D. H., Piano 
Ledwidge, Behind the Closed Eye 
IjCC, a.. Motherhood 

Letts, Chaplain to the Forces, The Call To Arms in Our Street 
Lindsay, The Santa Fe Trail, Abraham Lincoln Walks at 

Midnight, The Congo, The Chinese Nightingale 
Lowell, Patterns, iMadonna of the Evening Flowers, To A Lady 
MacDonagh, Wishes For j\ly Son 
MacGill, Before the Charge 
MacKaye, School 
Markham,, Lincoln, The Man of the People ; The Man with 

the Hoe 
Masefield, Tewksbury Road, The Island of Skj^ros 
blasters, Lucinda IMatlock 
Monro, Milk for the Cat, Solitude 
Monroe, Love Song, On the Porch 
Morgan, Work, The Choice 
Morley, To the Oxford Men in the War 
Morton, Symbol 
Neibardt, Let jMe Live Out My Years 



SUPPLEMENTARY READING LIST 291 

Newholt, Drake's Drum 

Nichols, The Assault, The Full Heart 

Norton, I Give Thanks 

Nojjes, Kilmeny, A Song of Sherwood, Unity 

Oppenheim, The Lonely Child, The Slave 

Owen, Three Hills 

Patch, My Rosary 

Peabodij, A Dog, Cradle Song, The House and the Road 

Phillips, The Kaiser and Belgium 

Phillpotts, Death and the Flowers 

Pound, Piccadilly 

Remlall, The Wind 

Reese, A Christmas Folk-Song 

Rice, The Immortal, Chanson of the Bells of Oseney 

Robinson, E. A., Cassandra, Flammonde 

Sandburg, Cool Tombs, Loam Grass 

Sassoon, Dreamers, Aftermath 

Schnnffler, R. H., "Scum o' the Earth" 

Scollard, The King of Dreams 

Seaman, Thomas of the Light Heart 

Service, Fleurette 

Shepard, A Nun 

Simms, The Bridge-Builders 

Sorley, To Germany 

Squire, To a Bull-Dog 

Stephens, In the Poppy Field, What Tomas An Buile Said in 

a Pub 
Sterling, Omnia Exeunt in Mysterium 
Teasdale, The Lamp, Spring Night 
Tietjens, The Most-Sacred Mountain 
Torrence, The Son 
Trotter, The Poplars 

Tyjian, High Summer, The Making of Birds 
Tyrrell, My Son 
Untermeyer, J. S., Autumn 

Untermeyer, L., Summons, Caliban in the Coal-Mines 
TJpcott, Brother Fidelis 
Watson, The Battle of the Bight 
Wheelock, Earth, Spring 
Widdenier, A Cyprian Woman 
Williams, Sicilian Emigrant 's Song 



292 SUPPLEMENTARY READING LIST 

Woodherry, The Child 

Yeats, The Ballad of Father Gilligan 

A short list of books coutaining criticism or discussing mat- 
ters of poetic technique is also given. Most of them are fairly 
dilfi-cult reading, but if you are really interested to pursue the 
subject further, they are well worth while. 

Aiken, Skepticisms 

Fletcher, Preface to Irradiations 

Fletcher, Preface to Goblins and Pagodas 

Lowes, Convention and Revolt in Poetry 

Lowell, Tendencies in Modern American Poetry, Preface to 

Sword Blades and Poppy Seed 
Newholt, A New Study of English Poetry 
Perry, A Study of Poetry 
Phelps, The Advance of English Poetrj^ in the Twentieth 

Century 
Vntermeyer, The New Era in American Poetry 



INDEX OF FIEST LINES 

PAGE 

A black cat among roses 137 

A lady loved a swaggering rover 16 

A miser with an eager face 68 

A quiver in the hot and breathless air 102 

A wan-cheeked girl with faded eyes 25 

After night's thunder far away had rolled 54 

Along de road from Bord a Plouffe 179 

Along the wharves in sailor town a singing whisper goes 5 

Among the meadows 67 

A winged death has smitten dumb thy beUs 88 

Across the seas of Wonderland to Mogadore we plodded 194 

All day long the traffic goes 31 

All day the children play along the walks 29 

All summer in the close-locked streets the crowd 159 

At the sixth green field came the long slow climb 72 

Behold where Night clutches the cup of heaven 172 

Booth led boldly with his big bass drum 176 

Broken, bewildered by the long retreat 101 

Come with rain, loud Southwester 48 

Courage is but a word, and yet, of words 164 

Dagonet, Arthur's fool 192 

Does it matter? — losing your leg 103 

"Down cellar," said the cricket 190 

God does not give us, when our youth is done 168 

God of our fathers, known of old 161 

God, though this life is but a wraith 164 

Good morning, Life — and all 57 

293 



294 INDEX 

PAGE 

He bad done with fleets and squadrons, with the restless, roam- 
ing- seas 105 

He lolled on a bollard, a sun-burned son of the sea 14 

He was straight and strong, and bis eyes were blue 152 

He went, and he was gay to go 83 

Her heart is like a garden fair 148 

Here een Noo Yorka, where am I 22 

Hills, you have answered the craving 65 

How like the stars are these white, nameless faces 23 

Howdy, Mister Hop-Toad ! Glad to see you out 49 

I am all alone in the room 128 

I edged back against the night 5 

I guess I'm bad as I can be 123 

I have a rendezvous with Death 95 

I have been so great a lover ; filled my days 166 

I have known the silence of the stars and of the sea 172 

I have no dog, but it must be 133 

I have not heard her voice, nor seen her face 151 

I have seen old ships sail like swans asleep 12 

I have shut my little sister in from life and light 26 

I know a vale where I would go one day 53 

I loved you for your loving ways 141 

I, Mysal', I feela strange 124 

I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky . . 3 

I peddles pencils on Broadway 24 

I saw the spires of Oxford 94 

I sicken of men's company 43 

I think that I shall never see 71 

If I should die, think only this of me 95 

If Love should count you worthy, and should deign 153 

If you can keep your head when all about you 163 

In Flanders fields the poppies blow 96 

In the darkening church 126 

In the gray skirts of the fog seamews skirl desolately 11 

It doesn't matter what's the cause 100 

It is midday : the deep trench glares 99 

It was awful long ago 120 

Last night as I lay on the prairie 175 

Lay me on an anvil, God 27 



INDEX 295 

PAGE 

Lest the young soldiers be strange in Heaven 89 

Life has loveliness to sell 157 

Like to islands in the seas 143 

"Lincoln?" 170 

Listen, laddies: Gin ye go into the battle, be devout 91 

Listen to the tramping ! Oh, God of pity, listen ! 83 

Little groping hands that must learn the weight of labor 117 

Little Nellie Cassidy has got a place in to\\^l 134 

Little park that I pass through 28 

Lo, I have opened unto you the wide gates of my being 150 

May is building her house. With apple blooms 51 

Michael, come in ! Stop crying at the door 118 

My Daddy smells like tobacco and books 119 

My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree 60 

My shoulders ache beneath my pack 110 

No sign is made while empires pass 114 

Now T g:o. do not weep, woman 152 

Now the Four-way Lodge is opened, now the Hunting Winds 

are loose 44 

0, to have a little house 127 

O, what is that whimpering there in the darkness 105 

O, who will walk a mile with me 142 

world, I cannot hold thee close enough 60 

0, you that still have rain and sun 97 

Och, what's the good o' spinnin' words 201 

O'Driscoll drove with a song 185 

Oh. it's "ah, fare you well," for the deep sea's crying 6 

"Oh! Love," they said, "is King of Kings" 144 

Oh, mv heart is a little golden fountain 149 

Old lame Bridget doe«»i't hear 122 

Out of the cleansing night of stars and tides 21 

Out on the hill — by an autumn-tree 125 

Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir 12 

Roof-tops, roof-tops, what do you cover 22 

Serene, he sits on other shores 117 

Slowly, without force, the rain drops into the city 84 



296 INDEX 

PAGE 

Smoke of autumn is on it all 58 

Sometimes I fly at dawn above the sea 103 

Speak not — whisper not 136 

Strephon kissed me in the si)ring 145 

Talking to peoi^le in well-ordered ways is prose 201 

The Dew-Man comes over the mountains wide 121 

The fog comes on little cat feet 21 

The friend I love is like the sea to me 143 

The Gossips tell a story of the Sparrow and the Cat 189 

The old houses of Flanders 87 

The sea was wild. The wnnd was proud 4 

The sun is a huntress young 56 

The trees, like great jade elephants 70 

There he moved, cropping the grass at the purple canyon's lip . 75 

There's a barrel-organ caroling across a golden street 34 

There is a destiny that makes us brothers 165 

There is something in the autumn tkat is native to my blood . . 58 

There was a ship of Rio 6 

There was an Indian, who had known no change 159 

This is the song of the wind as it came 107 

Though others think I stare with eyes unseeing 119 

Through wild by-ways I come to you, my love 146 

Time, you old gypsy man 157 

To-day I have grown taller from walking with the trees 70 

Up and down he goes with terrible, reckless strides 161 

We'd gained our first objective hours before 98 

We tumbled out into the starry dark , Ill 

Well, if the thing is over, better it is for me 147 

W'en de clouds is hanjiing heavy in de sky 135 

When I play on my fiddle in Dooney 187 

When I see birches bend to left and right 63 

When Shakespeare laughed, the fun began 199 

When j^our marrer bone seems 'oiler 90 

Wlienever Richard Cory went down town 170 

Wild little bird, who chose thee for a sign 199 

Winter is here 62 



INDEX 297 

PAGE 

With a long heavy heave, my very famous men 7 

Within the little house 149 

Ye hooded witches, baleful shapes that moan 71 

Yes, Poet, I am coming down to earth 50 

You are a painter — listen 30 

You, Four Walls 132 

Zeus, Brazen-thunder-hurler 188 



^.'d: 



